


Badge of Honour

by ConsultingOtter (FourCornersHolmes)



Series: The Assorted & Collected Misadventures of John H. Watson, RAMC, MD [7]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: ALL THE ANGST, Aftermath of Torture, Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Greg Lestrade, BAMF John Watson, Canon-Typical Violence, Did I forget anything?, Epistolary, Greg is Sweet, Hurt John Watson, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Torture, John is a Bit Not Good, Johnstrade, M/M, No Series 3, No Series 4, One Night Stands, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sally Donovan & Greg Lestrade Friendship, Sally is a Good Friend, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, but not in a bad way
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-18 01:42:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 41,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16985727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FourCornersHolmes/pseuds/ConsultingOtter
Summary: Greg Lestrade and John Watson meet by chance one night as young men and things happen. A one-night stand turns into a cherished memory and as life moves on, neither one forgets. With nothing but a photograph to remind him, Greg lives his life in London and wonders about the cocky young Army Lieutenant he met one night when he was just a fresh-faced Constable.





	1. Fight and Flight

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Dear John](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7880677) by [BloodSeiryu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BloodSeiryu/pseuds/BloodSeiryu), [FourCornersHolmes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FourCornersHolmes/pseuds/FourCornersHolmes), [Tindomerelhloni](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tindomerelhloni/pseuds/Tindomerelhloni). 



> I blame my girls over at The Pit for this madness. This is kind of Dani's fault.  
> **  
> Tindomerelhloni and BloodSeiryu are responsible for the original journal entries in "Dear John", which I have been given permission to use in Chapter 3 and 4 for my own purposes, with editing and modifications as necessary. Thank you, ladies!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg Lestrade wasn't expecting anything extraordinary when he took the civil disturbance call. Maybe he should have. Always expect the unexpected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a very different first meeting of Greg Lestrade and John Watson. That is all.

* * *

* * *

When Greg Lestrade had decided a career in law enforcement was for him, he had gone in knowing damn well it would be a lot of hard work, a lot of thankless work, long hours, and time spent away from family. Missed birthdays, missed anniversaries, missed family dinners, the like. But that was…fine with him. He _wanted_ to be a police officer, and he was willing to work hard and make whatever sacrifices necessary to make it happen. His mother hadn’t been very happy about it, but his father fully supported his ambitions, secretly sending him the money necessary to get through Police Academy and support himself in London. It probably helped that his father was with The Metropolitan Police Service himself, so he understood Greg’s drive and desires.

And now? Well, he’d done it. He was a Police Constable with The Metropolitan Police Service, proud to wear his badge and serve an often-ungrateful populace that didn’t seem to want his service until they _needed_ it, or wanted it on their terms. And he had done it by himself, he hadn’t used his father’s presence to get where he was. He didn’t need to, he was his own person and proud to be that way.

But, there were always the good days and the bad ones in any job, especially in law enforcement. And the night Greg got a call on his radio to report to a disturbance, it was a bad day. But it was all part and parcel of the job, so he reported to the scene. He wasn’t the only officer called upon to respond, of course, but he was definitely the _first_. When he arrived at the location, a local bar catering to the LGBT crowd, Greg got a look at things and groaned. Why was it _always_ places like this? Radioing in that he’d arrived at the scene of the 415, he braced himself and went inside.

The first thing he noticed was a flash of…khaki? What was _that_? Taking one step to the left, he narrowly avoided getting knocked over by a stumbling patron. The man had been flattened by a blow from the stocky, ruddy-faced bloke now facing Greg but not _seeing_ him. Greg took a minute to take stock and raised an eyebrow. Oh, a soldier? Lovely, that was. But before he could get too far into his head, the bloke and spun on one heel and clocked another brawler clean in the jaw, sweeping the grunt’s feet out from under him as he stumbled back.

Suddenly, Greg saw a potential danger and reacted as someone _else_ came at the soldier from behind, one hand raised, clutching a bottle ready to bring it down on the man’s head. Not tonight, ta.

“Duck!” Greg yelled over the racket and watched the soldier duck, swinging around to take down his assailant. Of course, on the come-around, he almost hit Greg. Not entirely on purpose, but Greg reacted and grabbed him by the arm, stopping him in his tracks. That’s when he realized just how _short_ the man actually was, almost a full six inches shorter than Greg. Short, but well-built, sturdy and strong, thanks probably to all of the training he must have undergone for the…Army? Was it Army? And his eyes were probably blue when they weren’t dilated with adrenaline and alcohol.

Suddenly, Greg found himself face-down on the sticky bar-floor, shoved down without warning. He covered his head out of instinct, defending his vulnerable neck. A second later, he heard a heavy thud and looked up enough to see a body sprawled nearby. And standing _over_ him, literally, the soldier. Daring any and all comers to take a shot, just try.

 

Sirens sounded outside and Greg flinched. Oops. In a heartbeat, the soldier was on the move. Greg jumped to his feet and grabbed the man by the hand as he headed for…probably an exit. They escaped the crush of people down a short hallway and found themselves against a door marked “Fire Exit Only, Do Not Open. Alarm Will Sound.” Greg smirked and looked at the soldier, whose eyes were positively glowing. Together, they shoved the door open and charged out of the venue and into the crowded street. The brawl had spilt out onto the street and the place was lit up with white-and-blue, so no one really noticed Greg dragging the soldier into a quiet alcove on Tisbury Court just one street over. The minute they were clear, Greg’s back hit the wall and he grunted.

“Saved your life tonight.”

“Probably saved _yours_.”

“Fuck.” He muttered, scrabbling for purchase, fingers skating off the fabric of the soldier’s fatigues, finally getting a grip on his bicep. “Fuck.”

“Too…fucking close…here. Too…close.” The voice in his ear was harsh with exertion, softer than he’d expected it to be. “God damn it.”

“What’s…” Greg started to ask a question but didn’t get very far before he was cut off. That was one hell of a kiss! He would be damned if he whined, he reached up and tangled his hands in too-short strands. Just barely enough to hold onto, he gripped the back of the soldier’s neck with bruising force as they kissed like their lives depended on it.

A shout from the street behind them startled them apart and Greg looked at his partner in crime. He shoved the stocky blond out of the alcove and towards Wardour Street, away from the commotion. He didn’t even think about it, he just reacted.

“Not going to arrest me, Constable?”

“Not interested. Go!”

“Ta, sweetheart.”

“Hey!” He called as the man vanished.

“What?”

“How will I find you?”

“You won’t!” A cocky grin and a wave. “I’ll find _you_!” Then he was gone. Greg headed back towards the brawl and reported that he’d followed one runner but lost him down Tisbury Court, left him since there was plenty of work to do here anyway. No one questioned, and they spent fifteen minutes mopping up, collecting suspects and carting them off to Holding, and then it was back to the office for reporting and write-ups. Someone else got to handle the fun of talking to these clowns, Greg’s job was pretty much done and done.

He was writing up his reports at his desk when his father stopped by.

“Heard you had some fun tonight, Greg.”

“Wouldn’t say breaking up a bar-brawl at Rupert Street is really anyone’s idea of _fun_ , sir, but it was certainly…exciting.” He made a face and looked up, “Maybe not the best end to the day I had.”

“I guess you didn’t get his name, did you?”

“Get…who’s name?”

“Whoever left you all starry-eyed.” Thomas Lestrade just smiled at him and folded his arms, “No name, then?”

“Christ, is it stamped on my forehead?”

“Not obvious, I just know my son.” His father chuckled, “Well?”

“No. No name.” He couldn’t help blushing. His father had always been so supportive of Greg in almost everything, including his sexuality. When he had declared that he liked both girls and blokes, blokes a bit more fondly, Thomas had not shunned him.

“Love the people who make you happy. And I will love you regardless.” Those had been his father’s words when Greg had come out the day after his twenty-first birthday. “Just be careful who you share your heart with, my son.” And he had been, for three years.

“Do you think you’ll see him again?”

“No, actually.”

“Why not?”

“Because he was wearing fatigues.” He shrugged, trying to forget those blue, blue eyes, that crooked grin, the way the stranger had stood over Greg and protected him in return for Greg warning _him_.

“Oh, you found a soldier?”

“And I have no idea who he is.”

“You always had an eye for the lads, didn’t you?”

“I tried not to.”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Just be careful.” His father smiled and squeezed his shoulder. “Are you done with those?” Meaning the stack of reports on his desk. Greg lifted his biro and looked at what he’d been working on for what felt like hours.

“Um. Yes?”

“Good. I’ll take those for review and filing, _you_ go home.” His father simply scooped the stack into his hands, “Take a shower, get some rest.”

“Thank you, sir.” Greg just smiled and clocked out. He left his radio in his desk drawer, he wasn’t going to need it until tomorrow at this rate, before he got to his feet, picking up his coat and keys, shaking hands with his father.

“See you tomorrow?”

“No. You get the day off tomorrow. Because I said so.”

“Thank you, sir.” Greg heaved a sigh of relief. Thank god. He needed a rest-day so badly.

“Good night, Greg.”

“Good night, Dad.”

Leaving the precinct by himself, Greg took the Tube back to his cramped little flat in Chelsea. Letting himself in, he locked the door and discarded his uniform in pieces along the way to the loo and ran the water as hot as he could stand it. A hot, leisurely shower sounded glorious, but Greg was distracted by blue eyes and a crooked smile, a slightly crooked nose. Not broken? Hopefully, not that it would detract from those good looks.

 _Jesus Christ, Lestrade, rein it in._ He thought blithely. _You don’t even have the bloke’s fucking_ name _._ Did he? He’d worn fatigues, those had name-patches on them. Had he gotten a look at that part of the uniform? W…something. Wallace? No. Winston? No. What _was_ it? Fuck. Resisting the urge to jerk off to a pair of pretty blue eyes and a charming smile, Greg finished up and stepped out, drying off quickly.

As he was drying his hair, he heard what sounded suspiciously like a knock. What the hell? Pausing, he tilted his head and listened carefully. When the sound was repeated, he groaned. Damn it. If it was his neighbour’s loser ex-boyfriend again, he’d probably slap the bastard in handcuffs just for good measure. Wrapping the towel around his waist, he shuffled to the door.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m _coming_. Fuck.” He yelled as he fought the lock free and yanked the door open. “Stop bothering me, Brandon, I swear to Christ, or I’ll...”

“What? Call the cops on me?” Oh, that was _not_ Brandon Leslie. Oh fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

“Fuck.” Greg blinked. Khaki fatigues, a bit rumpled, blue eyes, almost too short blond hair, a crooked grin. _That_ crooked grin, to be precise.

 _Please don’t let this be a dream,_ he thought, wiping water from his eyes in an attempt to focus.

“Can I come in or are you going to stand there all night staring at me?”

“Shit. Please, come in!” He stepped aside and let the man standing at his door into his flat, “Sorry, um. H-how did you...”

“Got your name off your jacket and looked you up in the phone-book.” The soldier looked at him and smiled, “Hope you don’t mind.”

“No! No, not at...um, not at all! Sorry, I just...I wasn’t expecting any company.”

“I can tell. Was I interrupting something?”

“Er...no?”

“Sweetheart, you answered the door wearing a towel and yelling another bloke’s name.”

“Oh, Christ, no!” Greg blushed, thoroughly embarrassed, “Um, no, no, I swear. Um. Brandon Leslie is my _neighbour’s_ ex-boyfriend. Well, he’s _going_ to be an ex-boyfriend. Soon.”

“Oh, so not yours?”

“Christ, I hope not.” He headed back towards his bedroom, “Uh, make yourself at home. Sorry about the mess.”

“What mess? You _live_ here, anyone else is just visiting.” The soldier, whoever he was, just tagged along, looking around Greg’s place appreciatively. “Nice place you’ve got.”

“Thanks.” Greg looked over his shoulder as he looked for pyjama bottoms at least. “Hey, if you want to clean up a little bit, feel free.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, absolutely!”

“Ta. Christ knows I smell like blood, sweat, and bad life-decisions in spilt beer.” He heard the eye-roll more than he saw it and chuckled.

“Do I get a name out of you this time?”

“Hmm?”

“Last time I saw you, I didn’t get your name. You got mine, obviously, but fair’s only fair.”

“Oh.” A soft chuckle muffled by running water. “Name’s Watson. John Watson.”

“Oh, damn I was close.” He brushed his teeth, studiously avoiding looking into the shower-cubicle just on the other side of the glass. Using the excuse of looking at his reflection in the small mirror, Greg snuck a peek. Oh, shit. Ducking before he got caught ogling, he retreated to the water-closet and waited until he heard the shower go off. Why did he have to have a thing for soldiers? Why? It wasn’t fair at all. When he got back to the bedroom, Watson was sitting on Greg’s bed in a pair of grey cotton bottoms. Were those scrub-trousers?

“Your turn, if you want.” He said quietly. Watson smiled and got up slowly. But instead of passing Greg, he stopped at his side and reached out, touching his arm.

“Is this okay?”

“Christ, yes.”

“Okay. I’m sorry about earlier, I should have asked first.”

“That’s...it’s fine.” He blinked, “I promise.”

“If you say so.”

“I do.”                                  

“Be right out.” Watson’s smile softened and he leaned up, kissing Greg on the cheek.  Greg went around and closed up the flat for the night, not missing the bags stacked by the door. Oh. He hadn’t actually noticed those earlier when he’d opened the door for Watson the first time. Going back to the bedroom without disturbing the bags, he noticed the toiletry kit sitting on the counter-space next to his and sighed. It seemed...normal, like it belonged there. Turning down the bed, Greg hoped to God he wasn’t reading into this wrong. He listened to the toilet flush, and the sink ran as Watson washed his hands. When cool, damp hands touched his skin, he jumped a little.

“Jumpy thing, aren’t you?”

“Sorry.”

“Alright, Constable?”

“F-fine.” He swallowed hard. Fuck. He was the older of them, wasn’t he? What was wrong with him? Greg was _never_ this nervous with partners, ever. What was different about Watson? Watson slid his arms around Greg’s waist and took his hands, lacing their fingers together. He was just tall enough to hook his chin over Greg’s shoulder, so he did that.

“Hey, don’t forget to breathe.”

“Did I?”

“Not yet.” A soft chuckle, a puff of warm air against his neck. “I can’t possibly be your first.”

“N-no, you’re...Christ, you’re not, I promise. I don’t know _why_ I’m so...” He trailed off.

“Adrenaline’s worn off, I bet. And you didn’t even have a name to go on until I knocked on your door.”

“You’re...pretty good in a fight.”

“Ta. I imagine you’re no slouch yourself.” Watson slipped one hand under the waistband of Greg’s bottoms, not quite reaching for his cock. “What do you want from this?”

“Wh-what can you give me?”

“One night together before I’m shipped off to some unforgiving foreign country where they don’t speak Queen’s English to fight for Crown and Country, no strings attached, maybe I’ll see you again, maybe I won’t.”

“That’s alright with me.” Greg let out a sigh and turned around so he could see Watson’s face. “Where are they sending you?”

“I’m not actually sure, but it’s not going to be pleasant.”

“Probably not.” Greg sniffled and carefully touched the side of Watson’s face, where a bruise was forming from the brawl earlier. “Does that hurt?”

“Not really. Just be careful.”

“Yeah, of course, I will be.” Greg nodded and tugged Watson towards the bed. Neither of them was wearing shirts, so all they had to do was get rid of their bottoms. That didn’t take long and Greg spent a few minutes just admiring the stocky, lithe body that was his just for tonight. He wasn’t going to ask Watson for more, it wouldn’t be fair to either of them. “No strings attached”. That was alright with him. One memorable night before Watson walked out of his life forever. Well, hopefully _not_ forever, but...for the foreseeable future.

Watson finally pushed him back on the bed and he shuffled so they were in a more comfortable position, Watson on top and straddling Greg’s hips.

“Take it easy, got the whole night ahead of us.” Watson murmured against Greg’s lips as they kissed. It was nice to kiss Watson, he obviously knew what he was doing. Not that Greg was a slouch in the bedroom, of course. They played a game of give-and-take, kissing and touching and figuring out where and _how_ to touch each other. It was amazing to learn the soldier’s body, find the soft spots that made him squeak or moan.

It was only after what felt like _hours_ of foreplay that Greg got Watson under him, face-to-face, and gripped his hips carefully, making deliberate eye-contact.

“Ready for me?”

“Ready when you are,” Watson said quietly, fingers closing around his arms, tightening as Greg pushed into the hot, willing body beneath him. Greg had been very careful to thoroughly prepare Watson, unwilling to hurt him out of haste or ignorance. And despite being almost 100% certain they were both clean, Greg wore a condom and had given Watson one as well. More for clean-up convenience than necessity, but it was a gesture that did not go unappreciated.

The slow, careful slide was maddening in the best ways, and he loved the way Watson’s body began to loosen up and accept him. Finally, he couldn’t go any further and withdrew just a bit. Greg hadn’t angled for the soldier’s prostate right out of the gate, he wanted to save that for later, but Watson’s soft moan as he pulled back was beautiful. Greg couldn’t remember the last time he’d had such a responsive partner, of _either_ sex. When Watson came, it was all at once and Greg gasped as the smooth muscles around his cock tightened. Watson gave a short, muffled yell, his outburst buried against Greg’s shoulder. Thank god for his uniform, he would definitely have marks in the morning. The sharp sensation of teeth against his skin was stimulating and tossed Greg over the edge and he clenched his teeth as a low, guttural groan escaped him.

Once they were both completely spent for this round, Greg carefully withdrew from Watson, echoing his hiss of discomfort, and set about discarding the condoms and cleaning them both off. Being young as they were, they were blessed with relatively brief refractory periods, and it was no time at all before Watson was flipping Greg onto his back for another go.

“ _My_ turn!” The soldier said, his smile bright and troubling. “Hold onto something, Constable! I plan on making sure you forget your own name.”

“I’d love to see you try!” He challenged, suspecting he might come to regret those words. Which, he did, about five minutes later when he was on hands and knees, head buried in his pillow, hands scrambling to hold onto something, knees digging into the mattress, as Watson held him from behind. Blunt, dextrous fingers dug into his hips and Greg cursed in French, eyes screwed shut. Suddenly, Watson bottomed out and Greg yelped, fingers closing tight around the chain of the handcuffs Watson had decided to use on him. The metal bracelets were tight enough he couldn’t get out of them but loose enough they wouldn’t leave too-obvious marks for later.

“Fuck!” He shouted.

“Working on it, sweetheart.” Watson chuckled breathlessly. “Told ya!”

“Shh...shut up.” He groaned as Watson pulled back a bit. “Fuck you, Watson!”

“Already did that once, Lestrade.” His partner managed to somehow sound smug. Greg kind of hated him for that. When Watson reached around with one hand and gave Greg’s neglected erection some attention, he almost wept. Every stroke hit his prostate, damn Watson for that, and by the time he heard those three words, he wanted to scream.

“Are you ready?”

“Christ, yes! Please!”

“Ready when you are, Constable,” Watson said softly, kissing the back of Greg’s neck. Permission granted, and not a minute too soon. Greg’s climax hit like a tidal wave, thundering through him and out, filling the condom and draining him until he collapsed on his elbows, chest heaving.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Watson groaned, forehead pressed to Greg’s shoulder as his climax hit a few strokes later. When Watson collapsed against Greg’s back, he went down flat on his front, winded and whimpering. As soon as either of them was capable of moving more than an eyelash, which took a while, Greg whined as Watson pulled out first and then carefully pulled him up by the hips enough to remove the spent condom, staggering off to dispose of them and return with a damp cloth or two, and the keys to the handcuffs. He was careful and tender with cleanup, and tossed the handcuffs into the bedside drawer with a clatter before tucking Greg under the covers and sliding in alongside him. Tonight would be committed to long memory, Greg would make sure of that. He didn’t want to forget any of it. He was sore, deliciously so, warm, and not alone.

“Good night, Greg.”

“Good night, John.” He murmured, snuggling into the warm, solid body sharing his bed. One night, no strings attached. What a hell of a night, though. Worth it. So, so very worth it.

 

Early the next morning, Greg was up with Watson to see him off on his first deployment. He fixed breakfast for both of them and then drove Watson to his garrison. He would have happily dropped him off at the train station, but when Watson told him he was stationed at Aldershot Garrison, Greg grabbed his keys.

“That’s maybe an hour’s drive! I’m off today, I’ll drive you down! Get in a little extra time before you disappear on me.”

“Are you sure?” Watson stood by the door, neat in a fresh pair of fatigues with one bag over his shoulder and the other at his feet. “I don’t want to inconvenience you.”

“After last night? Driving you down to Aldershot is definitely not an inconvenience.” Greg smiled and picked up the second bag, “Come on.”

“Thank you, Greg.”

“Don’t mention it. I had as much fun as you did.” He held the door for Watson and locked up after they were both out.

“Um. Greg?”

“Hm?”

“I think we have company. Might be a problem?” Watson was keeping an eye on the street for him.

“What’s that?” He looked over his shoulder. He couldn’t see from here what Watson could see, but as soon as he could, he just sighed.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake.”

“Need a ride somewhere, boys?” If Thomas Lestrade didn’t just look so bloody pleased with himself. Watson looked at Greg curiously.

“Who’s that?”

“That’s...my dad. Come on, looks like we’ve got a ride to Aldershot Garrison.” He took Watson’s hand. “He doesn’t mind, I promise.”

“Not the first boy you’ve gone home with, then?”

“Nope.”

“Better than my old lady, I guess.” Watson shrugged and followed him. “Old man didn’t mind much, interestingly enough, but Christ the strop Mum pitched when she realized she wasn’t getting grandchildren...”

“I’m so sorry, John. But at least one parent supports you?”

“Yeah, he’s the one who convinced me to join the Army.” Watson smiled, looking at Greg’s dad, “Kinda like yours talked you into law enforcement?”

“Yeah.”

“So, Greg, who’s your friend?” Thomas was smug but polite. “Good looking fellow.”

“Dad!”

“What?”

“Jesus.” He covered his face with both hands.

“John Watson, sir. Lieutenant John Watson. Pleased to meet you.” Watson just took it in stride and introduced himself to Thomas, who smiled brightly as they shook hands.

“Oh, son, the pleasure’s all mine! Thomas Lestrade.” Greg’s father chuckled, “Are you the soldier my idiot son pulled out of that brawl last night and forgot to get your name?”

“Yes, sir, I am.”

“Well, you must’ve found ‘im. Have a good night?”

“Better than I thought I’d get for my last night home.” Watson just smiled and took Greg’s hand again. “You don’t mind driving all the way down to Aldershot Garrison to drop me off, do you? I can get a cab no problem.”

“Oh, no you don’t!” Thomas’s eyes narrowed, “You two get in the back and buckle up. I’ll do the driving, you worry about figuring out how to say goodbye and if you’ll be able to keep in touch or not.”

“Oh. Thank you, sir.” Watson didn’t seem terribly surprised by his father’s kindness, and they both got into the backseat of the IRV he drove for work. Thomas took Watson’s bags and stashed them in the boot before he got in the front and got them underway.

“I like your dad,” Watson whispered once they were on the highway heading south.

“I think it’s mutual.” Greg smiled, “I told you, he’s okay with this. You should have heard him last night while I was filing reports.”

“You know I can hear you back there,” Thomas said cheerfully, eyeing them in the mirror. Greg looked at Watson and they broke down giggling.

“So, Lieutenant, where are they sending you?”

“Um, Northern Ireland, I think? Or Kenya, probably. Somewhere far, far away from here.”

“Oh, my god.” Greg caught his breath. “I’d almost hope for Northern Ireland, as bad as that is!”

“Careful what you wish for, yeah?”

“No kidding!”

 

The drive from London to Aldershot Airport was quiet but not really uncomfortable and they dropped Watson off at the proper location. Standing on the kerb together by his father’s car, Greg looked at the young soldier he’d dragged out of a bar-fight last night who had followed him home and given him a hell of a night to remember.

“Well, I guess this is it.”

“I guess it is.” Watson smiled sadly and held out one hand. “Take care of yourself for me, Constable Lestrade.”

“Only if you do, Lieutenant Watson.” He took Watson’s hand. “You’re the one going overseas to get shot at, I’m not.”

“One of us has to do the brave, stupid thing.”

“Good luck, John. I’ll...I’m going to miss you.”

“Yeah.” Watson pulled him into a hug. “You, too, Greg. Maybe I’ll see you later.”

“Fingers crossed.” Greg snuck in a kiss on the cheek, not brave enough to risk any more than that in the open. Watson hugged him a little tighter and then pulled away, picking up his second bag and heading for the doors of the concourse. The last Greg saw of him was a glimpse of blond hair and khaki in a sea of identical uniforms. Spotting him through the windows, Watson waved and blew him a kiss. Greg just smiled and waited until he couldn’t see the soldier anymore before he got back into the car and started the lonely drive home again.

“I like that boy,” Thomas said quietly. “He’s good.”

“Yeah, I know.” Greg sighed, feeling strangely empty. He reached for the mark on his shoulder from last night, hidden by his clothes.

“Do you think you’ll see him again?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“Well, whatever you do, don’t forget him.”

“I won’t.” Greg knew he couldn’t possibly forget the blond-haired soldier, promised himself he wouldn’t.

 

When they got back to London, Thomas dropped him off at his flat and told him to take it easy. He spent the rest of the day cleaning his flat and sleeping, reminded of his night every time he spotted the abrasions on his wrists. Badges of honour, those were to be worn proudly. Well, at least he’d gotten somewhere with his mysterious soldier. He’d even gotten a name! When he discovered a pair of discarded fatigues under his bed three days later, he just smiled and carefully added them to his laundry. He didn’t miss how even after washing, they still smelled like John Watson. Not like his night at Rupert Street, but like Watson, the way he had smelled after taking a shower at Greg’s place. If only Greg had known that “Maybe I’ll see you later” would mean nearly twenty _years_ later, and the next time he had anything to do with a bloke named John Watson, they would both be much older and more embittered by life’s harsher realities.

* * *

* * *

 


	2. Loved His Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been twenty-one years since Greg Lestrade met John Watson at a gay bar in London. A bad day is about to get a great deal worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Severe angst here. Greg has a panic attack in a safe place with good people to support him. Witchy (RussianWitch) helped me with this one, so, thank you, my dear!  
> **  
> Italics are voice-memo/radio/phone call.  
> Bold is handwritten/email/phone text

* * *

* * *

Greg’s life settled into a routine after that encounter; he climbed the rank-ladder at his job, found a girlfriend, dated, and got married relatively young. All the while, he never forgot John Watson. He had a picture his father had taken of the two of them at the airport the day Watson had left for the Army, the two of them standing next to each other on the footpath, arms around each other’s shoulders like best mates, wearing bright, sad smiles. He carried the photograph everywhere, making a pristine copy to frame on his desk, and wrote volumes of unsent letters to a man he had only met once and spent a night with when he had been a much younger man.

In 2013, things went from bad to awful to worse. Greg had lost his job for a few months in late 2011, carrying over to the new year, returning to work after three months administrative leave. His wife had finally settled for a divorce, leaving him with his badge and a few thousand pounds in his bank-account. He spent most of 2012 getting back into the groove of work and fighting his wife in divorce court. They’d fought long and loudly about on child-support payments, he had threatened to counter-sue for defamation of character and lying in a court of law if she kept up trying to collect child-support from him for someone else’s child. DNA testing finally confirmed what he had long suspected: the child she claimed was his was not, in fact, his. It was her new beau’s kid, and Greg was only relieved that he wasn’t stuck paying the bills for someone else’s brat. So, he packed up his life and found a new place to live, bachelor once again.

And then, the same day the final divorce settlement landed on his desk, he got a very strange visitor. 27 July was a Saturday, he wasn’t even supposed to be in the office, but a case had come in a week ago that had kept his entire team running after leads and suspects and witnesses alike.

“Hey, Boss?” His sergeant, an industrious, smart woman who showed enough promise to climb if she could just make better personal decisions, caught him as he was making his way through the work-floor to his office. He hadn’t slept in a week, his clothes were three days worn, he looked like shit and felt about as good as he looked, he hadn’t eaten in four days, was running on too much caffeine, junk takeaway, and was about a half a pack into the worst case of nicotine poisoning he’d ever suffered through.

“What, Donovan?”

“Uh, you’ve got someone waiting in your office?”

“I...what?” He blinked, trying to make the words make sense.

“Didn’t get a name, he just said he had to see you.” Sally Donovan looked worried as she studied him, “Said he’d wait long as he had to.”

“Oh. Okay.” He sighed, ruffling his hair and groaning when it stuck up in odd angles. “God damn it. Thanks, Donovan.”

“Are you alright, Boss?”

“Yeah, Donovan. Fine.” He waved her off and trudged into his office. The door was open just a bit, someone was obviously inside. Bracing himself to be passably polite with someone he didn’t want to deal with right now, and hoping to Christ it wasn’t his wife’s barrister, Greg pushed his door open and shuffled inside. He kicked his door shut and tossed his work-bag towards the couch in one corner, adding his overcoat to the mix, and gave the man standing by his desk a quick once-over.

“You’re not here for Patricia, are you? I have nothing to say to her, or to you, and you can just see yourself out.”

“No, Inspector. I am not here on behalf of your ex-wife’s barristers.” The man had an unusual accent, but he was definitely a local. Raised out in the country somewhere, went to the good schools. Probably travelled the world for work and the hell of it.

“Oh. Then, what are you doing...”

“Are you Gregory E. Lestrade?”

“What?”

“Don’t be dull, Inspector. Are you Greg Lestrade?” The man, about five inches taller than Greg and thicker in frame, rolled his eyes. His hair was thinning and some off-shade of red, his face was full but pinched with a distinctive hawkish nose and bright, unsettling grey eyes. He was government, Greg just got that vibe from him, and that was almost worse than a cutthroat barrister coming after his job again.

“Who’s asking?”

“My name is not important. However, my business with you is. This came by me with your name on it.” The man held out a small box to him, it looked like a lock-box of some kind. The box had clearly been somewhere else, it was...filthy.

“What is that?”

“I’ve had the contents cleared for any booby-traps or bombs. It’s completely harmless.”

“That wasn’t my question. What. Is. It?”

“Have you ever had dealings with someone named John Watson?”

“Um.” Greg froze. That name was one he’d never forget, as long as he lived. His gaze strayed to the framed photograph on his desk, the same one he carried in his pocket. “Yes? Why? Has...something happened?”

“The contents of this box, which has been left unlocked after my people recovered and cleared it, belonged to a man named John H. Watson. Captain of Her Majesty's Royal Army. Your name was on a letter and in several entries in the field-journal.”

“Wh-wait a minute. Where did you find this?” Greg was afraid to touch the box.

“In an undisclosed location.”

“ _Where_ did you find this box? And how the hell do you know it belonged to John Watson?”

“The box was recovered on a rescue mission in Afghanistan two weeks ago.”

“Afghanistan.” Greg reached for the box. Christ, what had happened?

“If you do not believe me, see for yourself.”

“You say...rescue mission. You didn’t...” He trailed off as he took the box. If they had the box, they didn’t have John Watson.

“I am very sorry, Inspector. But there was a note to have this package and its contents delivered to you if they were recovered. So, I have delivered them to you.” The man looked at him carefully. “You have my condolences and that of Her Majesty’s Government, Inspector Lestrade. Good day.” The door closed with an unusually loud click. Greg rushed to lock the door and grabbed a pair of nitrile gloves from the box in his desk drawer. He laid down a sheet of paper from the flip-board in the corner on the table just in case. This was essentially evidence, and he would treat it appropriately and gently. It might be all he had left of John Watson.

After setting the lock-box on his work-table and sitting down, he pulled the gloves on and carefully lifted the dusty lid of the box, which was unlocked just as the stranger had said it would be. The whole box was covered in sand, it had clearly been buried. Inside the box was...a piece of khaki MTP fabric from a pair of fatigues,  and... a sock? A sock, a cotton athletic sock, the kind of which soldiers wore on duty (it was actually a pair of socks, not a single like he'd initially thought), and a thick layer of sand. Greg grabbed his phone and switched on the voice-memo so he could talk himself through this. It would...help, he thought, to talk this through like he was processing evidence from a crime-scene. It was impersonal, but it was the only way he could get through this without crying.

 _“The evidence article is a small metal security lock-box, steel, one lock, no key. No identifying marks, but it bears signs of use and wear, there are scratches and scuff-marks around the lock and on the lid. It has been opened previously. Its dimensions are four and one-eighth inches by twelve and three-quarter inches exterior with…eight and one-quarter depth interior. It was buried at least six or eight inches below the surface for an undetermined amount of time. Contents are…several ounces of sand and one pair of bundled Army issue athletic socks wrapped in a torn sleeve from a fatigue jacket. Inside are…”_ He paused and unwrapped the unusual bundle, laying out the contents one by one and swallowing the sting behind his eyes. Oh, shit. No wonder they hadn’t found a body.

 _“One pair of Army standard identification-tags, belonging to J.H. Watson.”_ He read off the information from the tags, which were dusty, chipped, and Christ help him if that was blood. He carefully put the tags in an evidence bag, doing the same with the socks. He would have Molly Hooper run diagnostics on this for him later.

Next: _“TRF patches denoting the victim’s corps and country affiliation.”_ Royal Regiment of Fusiliers, Royal Northumberland, Fifth Regiment,  the Royal Army Medical Corps, and a Union Jack flag.

And: _“A name-designation strip for J. Watson.”_ The patches had all been very carefully removed from the uniform and set aside. Very likely from the same sleeve that had been used to wrap the bundle for storage and concealment.

There was also: _“One field-journal, used extensively by the victim prior to and following his…internment.”_ The journal was full of entries, some were standard entries for day-to-day things John Watson and seen and done. Towards the end, the tone of the journal changed. One page had only a few words written on it: **‘If found, please return to the care of Greg E. Lestrade. 11 Stadium St, Chelsea, London, SW10 0PU, UK. Or C/O: The Metropolitan Police Service, London.’** The next page was…Greg actually closed the notebook. This was nothing he would be caught dead reading at his desk! He couldn’t! He finished what he’d been doing and put everything except the notebook in evidence bags, which he put in a filing box to take down to Saint Bart’s later. Tucked into the pages of the notebook, he discovered something stiff but bendable. Removing it, he found John’s copy of the photograph he had two copies of himself. It was obvious the picture had seen some abuse. It was dirty, faded, water-stained, wrinkled and torn. One half of the photograph was missing. On the remaining half was this note: **‘I wanted to keep you with me. Forgive me for being selfish. I never forgot you. JW.’** A small heart had been drawn next to the initials.

Putting the picture back in the notebook, Greg shut down his computer. Then, he stood up and grabbed his coat, keys, badge, and gun. With the filing box under one arm, he unlocked his door and stepped out, locking up again once he was out. He had his phone and the notebook on top of the filing box as he locked up his office one-handed, half-deaf to the commotion of the work-floor.

“Hey, Boss, are you alright?” There was Donovan, watchful thing. Bless her, she had no idea.

“Donovan, I’m out for the rest of the afternoon, probably tomorrow and the day after. I’m heading to Bart’s, I’ve got something for Doctor Hooper, and then I’m going home. I’ll see you on Tuesday.”

“What happened, sir? Are you sure you’re okay? Do you need a ride?”

“No thank you, Sally.” Greg looked at his sergeant, “I’ve got this. Thanks, though.”

“Why don’t I believe you?” She frowned at him, “I can decide if you want to murder someone or cry. Or both.”

“I got some bad news is all, Sal.”

“You’ve been getting the shaft lately, Boss. What was it this time?”

“Just the final papers. Came at a really bad time. And I…” He looked at the box. “I got some really bad news about a good friend of mine.” Donovan knew about John Watson, she teased him all the time about the picture on his desk, asked him about his “soldier boyfriend” when he was feeling tetchy because it made him smile. He hadn’t seen or spoken to John since 1992, that picture was all he had to remind him of one fantastic night, but he’d never, ever forgotten.

“Who is it, Boss?”

“Um.” He shuffled the box and reached for his wallet, finding the picture. “Remember him?”

“Yeah. Watson?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh my God.” Understanding hit Donovan in no time and her face fell, “Oh my god! I’m so sorry! Are you…fuck this, I’m taking you down to Saint Bart’s and then I’m driving you home. Come on, let’s go clear this with the Chief Super before you disappear on me completely.”

“Wait, Sal, I can take care of myself. I promise I’m…”

“You are _not_ fucking fine! I’m not quite the idiot Holmes used to call me, I know you’re hurting! Christ, Boss, if I’d known what that posh tosser wanted, I’d never have let him into your office like that!”

“You…didn’t know, Sal. It’s fine.” He sighed as she took the box from him and shoved him in a particular direction. “I don’t…even…”

“Stop it, you’ll just make it worse. Move it.” She hustled him out of the division offices and upstairs to his father’s office. After all this time, Thomas Lestrade was still with The Met, he should have retired years ago but just didn’t see the point. Greg wished he could say they surprised his father, but they didn’t. This wasn’t the first time Sally had dragged him out of his office for a few days’ respite, but this was serious.

“What’d he do this time, Donovan?”

“Nearly had a damn breakdown in his office, sir, then again on the work-floor. I figured I had better get him somewhere safe before that happened.”

“A breakdown? What happened?”

“J-John’s…missing.” Greg fought the words out. “John Watson is… _missing_ in action.” God, it hurt to say that. It hurt so much.

“Jesus Christ.” Thomas got to his feet, “When?”

“I…don’t know. I have no idea. All I have is a box of his…stuff. He…left his notebook, Dad.” Greg couldn’t make eye contact. “Some posh…government bloke brought it to me. Said I had the condolences of “Her Majesty’s Government” or some bullshit.”

“Alright, what’s your plan of action?”

“I’m taking this,” hefting the box in his hands, “to Molly Hooper, I want her to run DNA diagnostics on everything. Then…I’m going home.”

“That’s not fine, but it’s acceptable. I’ll stop by on my way home and bring dinner over. Sally will drive you home and I’ll have her come by tomorrow.”

“When…can I come back to work?”

“When I say so.”

“Yes, sir.” Greg knew when to pick his battles, this was not one of them.

“Come on, Greg.” Sally put a hand on his shoulder, “Let me take you home.”

“Yeah. Right.” Greg just let her lead the way, feeling hollow and kind of…numb. His job was dealing with dead bodies and the loved ones left behind, but…he had never been the one left behind before. And they didn’t even have a body, just…just a box of salvaged paraphernalia, carefully bundled and set aside so it could be recovered in the first place even if the man it belonged to wasn’t there when they found it.

He was vaguely aware of Sally driving him to Saint Bart’s, and he managed to hand over the box with his request for Molly Hooper, who just smiled sadly and promised to get right on it. Never mind she had a full roster of work to do, bodies to process and autopsies to run, she was willing to drop everything for him.

“I’ll just bring this by yours when I’m done with it, then?”

“Thank you, Molly.” Greg rubbed the lid of the box, trying to keep things together. He didn’t have any reason to cry, he really didn’t.

“Here, let me do something for you.” Molly set the box down and shuffled through the evidence bags inside, locating the tags. “I’ll just…” Before Greg could ask what she was doing with them, she was collecting equipment and he sat on a bench while she did whatever it is she had in mind. Ten minutes later, she came over to him with something wrapped in a flannel.

“What’s that?”

“You should have this, Greg.” She held out the cloth to him, “I got what I needed, you can take them.” Laid on the cloth, like they were precious gold or glass, were the tags. Molly had processed and cleaned John’s tags for him, so he could take them home with him.

“Oh.” He took them carefully, “Th-thank you, Molly.”

“Hey. It’s okay to be sad. Take your time, he sounds like he was a real special guy.”

“One of a kind.” Greg murmured, doing something pathetically sentimental as he lifted the tags to his lips. He remembered the first, and last time he had seen these tags, how he had played with the chain, twisting it between his fingers and messing with the way the tags clattered against each other. How John had finally told him to stop messing with his bloody tags and sleep or neither of them would be worth a damn in the morning, all without opening his eyes. How Greg had coaxed his partner into another round of sex with some pretty begging and a promise that he would make it worth his time. What a hell of a night that had been, all these years later it was still one of his fondest memories. And now, it might be all he had left of John. That was…heartbreaking.

Greg had managed to hold things together at the office, even on the drive over, and when surrendering the box full of mementoes, but now? He couldn’t, he just couldn’t. But Sally Donovan and Molly Hooper were two of his dearest friends, they weren’t going to judge him for breaking down. When Greg fell apart, they offered comfort. They didn’t say anything, words were worthless, but they offered presence.

“How long did they know each other?”

“One night is what he told me.”

“All it takes is one person.” Molly’s voice was soft, sad, “Poor thing. All this time, all these years, just to…”

“Yeah. No idea who gave him that box, but I feel bad for letting him in without giving him a bit more of a hard time of it.”

“Greg, if you need us, we’re here for you,” Molly said as she put a hand on his shoulder. “If that’s to talk or just to sit with you and keep you company.”

“Thanks, Molls.” He looked up, “Christ, I’m so sorry. Stupid to cry for a one-night stand.”

“No, it’s not. All it takes is one person to make your world a better place. And John Watson was definitely one of a kind.” That was Sally, who was giving him that look. “Come on, you. I’ve got one more stop in mind before I drag your arse back to yours and sit on you until the Chief can take over for me.”

“I don’t need babysitting, Donovan.”

“Bullshit you don’t. Now, come on.” She got him on his feet. “Molly, help me out?”

“Absolutely! Come on, Greg, just one foot in front of the other.” Molly took one side, Sally took the other, and between them, they managed to get Greg out of Saint Bart’s and into the car. Greg messed with the tags for a while before he just slipped the chain over his head and wore the damn things, and wondered where the hell Sally was taking him. Wherever they were going, it was well outside of London, it wasn’t long before they had left the city behind and were heading for the countryside.

“Sal, where the _hell_ are we going?” He finally asked.             

“I know Sherlock Holmes likes to say there’s no such thing as coincidence, and most of the time, I agree with him.” Sally looked over at him, just out of the corner of her eye, “But after your day, I think I can safely say bollocks to _that_ , ta.”

“Christ, I hope he doesn’t find out about this.” Greg ran one hand through his hair, shaking his head. “You know what he says about sentiment.”

“Yeah, I do.” Sally rolled her eyes. “But while you were dealing with our mystery government man, I got a phone call on your behalf.”

“Please tell me it wasn’t from any of Patricia’s barristers? I have absolutely nothing more to say to them.”

“Nope. I heard from your people in York.” His sergeant smiled. “Miss Cassie is ready to go home.”

“Oh my god.”

“Anytime you’re able to get up there, they’re ready to hand her over.”

“Oh, my god.” Greg put his head in his hands. That…actually, that was the best news he’d heard all fucking day. 

“After the day you’ve had, and it’s barely _noon_ , I think you could use some good news for once.”

“Christ, Sal. I…I just…”

“Completely forgot? That’s what I’m here for.” Sally reached over and took his hand in hers, “I’ve always got your six, Boss. Through the good times and the bad.”

“Jesus. Oh my god. Thank you, Sally. Thank you…so much.”

“Happy to. Here, you’re…you’re going to need those.” She pushed a box of tissues into his hands and let him cry again. She was good for that kind of thing, and Greg was so grateful for having someone like her on his team. She had her faults, they all did, but she had a better read on Greg than most people on the force and knew when to push him, when to just be there in the background, when to show up on his doorstep with a bottle of wine and a stack of DVDs in her bag, and she wasn’t afraid to knock him around a bit when she had to. He couldn’t imagine how differently this whole disaster could have gone if it was someone else, someone who didn’t know him as well, who didn’t tease him about a handsome one-night stand when he’d been a constable whenever he stared too long at that damn picture.

 

Almost four hours after leaving London, they reached their destination. Sally parked the car and came around to get the door for him.

“Come on.” She tucked her arm through his and they went into the shelter. At the desk, she gave his name to the receptionists and informed them that they were up to collect Cassie and take her home to London.

“Oh, of course! She’s so excited!” The receptionist just smiled, “Just a moment, dears!” She lifted her desk-phone and dialled an extension. There was a very short conversation had and she hung up the call, getting to her feet.

“That’s all settled, if you two will just follow me, please!”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Greg wondered if he looked as awful as he felt.

“You look a bit awful, dear. Bad week, was it?” The woman asked gently.

“That’s…one word for it. I think Cassie’s…Christ, the best thing that’s happened to me in three weeks. Definitely…today.” He swallowed hard, reaching for the chain around his neck. It was awful to think of John lost out there, somewhere in Afghanistan, injured and alone. He absolutely refused to think that John was dead, that was so... _final_. And they had no proof otherwise, so...until they had a body recovered and identified, he wouldn’t believe anyone who told him John Watson had been Killed In Action. He just couldn’t.

They were taken to a “mix” room, where they waited for a handler to bring Cassie out of her kennel to them.

“Oh, there’s my pretty lady!” Sally cooed when she saw Cassie. The six-year-old Rottweiler Greg had taken a shine to on a prior visit, almost a month ago, wagged her tail in excitement as she recognized Sally. “Hello, you beautiful girl! Hello, yes, we’re going to take you home now.”

“Christ, she’s…gorgeous. Prettier than I remember.” Greg sank to his knees, “I can really take her home now?”

“Absolutely, sir. She’s all yours!” The handler held out the lead, “She’s all ready to go home with you! Got her all fixed up nice and pretty.”

“Jesus. Th-thank you. Oh, God.” Greg took the lead and looked at Cassie, who left off getting a fuss from Sally and came right over. “Hi, girl, Christ you couldn’t have come at a better time. I’m a mess today, I can hardly take care of myself.” Picking up on his obvious distress, Cassie whined and licked at his face, pushing her body against his, getting into his space in every way she could. Greg didn’t care that his clothes were getting wrinkled and covered in dog-hair, he didn’t care that he was sobbing in public. Three times today, Christ he was a proper mess, wasn’t he? Good thing Sally was the one doing all the driving, yeah? And he had the next couple of days off from work, that helped, too.

“What on earth happened?” Someone asked Sally.

“He got some…bad news about a dear friend.” Sally said quietly. “His, er, boyfriend.”

“Oh, dear, that’s terrible. I’m so sorry to hear that.”

“I’m taking that one home after this and making sure he doesn’t spend too much time alone.”

“Good. And Cassie will certainly be a tremendous help there.”

“She already is, look at her.” Sally had noticed that Cassie was more or less cuddling with Greg, her head on his shoulder as he cried into her fur. “Hey, Greg? Can you get up?”

“I’ve got a few kilos of dog sitting on me, Sergeant.” He lifted his head a bit, “What do _you_ think?”

“Well, there’s a bit of his old humour.” She just gave him a look, “I suppose that’s a thing to be grateful for. Come on, up on your feet, Inspector.” Taking Sally’s hand, Greg got to his feet. Going to another small room, he filled out and filed the proper paperwork and paid the stated fee. Once he had everything squared away, they gave him copies of everything and wished him luck with Cassie.

 

It was a very quiet drive home to London, Cassie spent most of the drive with her head hanging over the back of Greg’s seat. Sally dropped him, and his car, off at his once they got back, but she didn’t leave him for the woods. She stayed and kept him, and Cassie, company. Greg took a hot shower and found clean, comfortable clothes while Sally did some housekeeping around his place. His favourite denims and a band-shirt would about do the trick, he thought. While he was rummaging for a tee-shirt, he caught a glimpse of something a little out of place. Reaching for the multi-coloured fabric, he froze as his fingers brushed the stiffer material. Not “a little out of place”, a whole hell of a lot out of place! Greg carefully pulled the shirt out of the drawer and shook it out.

“Christ.” He whispered hoarsely, staring at the slightly-wrinkled shirt in his hands. He still had it. Twenty-one years on and he _still had_ John’s uniform. He knew there was no way the shirt could possibly fit him after twenty-one years, but he _had_ to try. He remembered the times he had pulled the shirt out of his closet and either put it on or just...held onto it for a while. It had been almost ten years since he’d seen the shirt, he honestly thought Patricia had tossed it out with a donation load, either out of ignorance or out of spite.

Greg imagined the sight of John wearing this very same shirt, twenty-one years ago at a crowded gay-bar in Rupert Street, as he stood over Greg during a brawl. He remembered grabbing John by the arm as the soldier took a swing, not at him but one of the patrons who thought it was a good idea to pick on a soldier getting ready to leave home. The night he and John had shared, some of the best sex of his life to date, driving him down to Aldershot Garrison the next morning for the next stage of his journey from London to...somewhere that wasn’t London. Discovering this very same jacket shoved under his bed three days later and...keeping it. A memento, a reminder. It didn’t _smell_ like John anymore, but Greg imagined that if he just breathed deep enough, wished hard enough, he could smell John’s cologne.

It occurred to him that John would never wear this jacket again, and that...was unacceptable. Greg carefully put the shirt on. When it fit a little snugger than it had been last time, he almost forgot how to breathe entirely. Leaving the sleeves unbuttoned, he tugged them to his elbows and carefully did up the buttons down the front, stroking the sewn-on name-strip with shaky fingers. He couldn’t get the buttons fastened properly and just gave up. As it was, he was gasping for breath like he’d forgotten how, and his field of vision was blurry. Tears? Probably, touching his face with one hand told him his cheeks were wet. But he didn’t... _feel_ anything except anger. He couldn’t breathe, he grabbed the collar of the shirt and pulled on it with uncooperative fingers. It didn’t help the ache in his chest that made it impossible to take a decent breath, the darkness that crept in at the edges of his vision and made it difficult to focus on anything, it didn’t help the disorienting vertigo that threatened to turn Greg’s stomach. He felt like he was spinning, but he _knew_ he was standing still, it just…felt like he was spinning out of control. 

A nudge against the back of his knee startled him and he gasped, the first decent breath he’d taken in what felt like far too long. Greg looked over his shoulder to find Cassie standing there, tail wagging slowly, ears twitching.

“Hey, girl.” He reached down and stroked her head. “’s...okay,” Cassie whined and butted her head against his legs, pressing her head up against his hand until he continued to stroke her head and ears.

“I’m okay, girl, it’s okay.” He said breathlessly, clenching one hand in a fist. But Cassie obviously knew something he didn’t and without warning, she reared up on her back legs and knocked him backwards. He landed on the bed with a clumsy, flailing yelp.

“Greg!” Sally shouted from the lounge. “Are you okay, in there?” He managed to sit up as Cassie jumped up on the bed next to him, shoving her head under his arm as he covered his face.

“Greg? Oh no. What happened?” Sally was standing in the doorway, a dishrag in one hand. “Greg, sweetie, can you breathe for me? Just breathe.” Greg couldn’t put the words together, he was trying to breathe past the pain. He felt numb, empty. Cassie managed to get his hands away from his face and that forced him to take a deep breath. He let it out in a strangled, anguished sound that didn’t seem human at all. Bless her, Sally didn’t try to touch him. Instead, she did something else. While Greg buried his hysterics in Cassie’s fur, Sally made a phone-call.

He was barely paying attention as he laid down on his bed, knowing it was better if he wasn’t sitting up. Cassie laid down next to him, he didn’t have the heart to push her away, and he held onto his dog. She had known he was having a panic-attack and gotten him to sit down before it got this bad. If he’d been standing up any longer, he would have fallen and probably would have hurt himself. But he hadn’t.

 _“Hello, sir, it’s Sally Donovan, Scotland Yard. Sorry...yes, sorry to bother you this afternoon, sir. I’m calling on behalf of Inspector Lestrade, I know you’ve...er, what’s that, sir?”_   Who was she talking to?

 _“Oh, yes, sir? Yes, sir. It’s...I’m so sorry, sir, I can’t imagine. I didn’t know what else to do. I’m going to call Chief Lestrade next, but I thought I should let you know that Greg’s...yes, sir. Yes, I have him here. I...took him home, sir, after...what, sir?”_ There was another pause as Sally listened to whoever it was she was talking to. Who the hell had she called? It was obviously not Greg’s father.

 _“Oh, yes, we’ve...er, he heard the news. Yes, he knows. He’s...well, honestly, sir? He’s not doing well. No, he’s not alone, sir. I’m staying with him for now, I’ll probably stay over tonight. He shouldn’t...no, sir, he shouldn’t be alone, I agree. No, thank you, sir. What’s that?”_ Another question was asked and Sally hesitated.

 _“Oh, of course, you can! Yes, I...actually, yes, please do. Do you know where he lives? Okay, I’ll...give me a mo, and I’ll send you his address. He’s...no, he doesn’t live in Chelsea, hasn’t for a while, I’m afraid. I’ll send you his new address, you can visit whenever you have the time, sir. It’s probably better if he isn’t alone right now. Of course, sir, thank you. Yes, General Watson, I’ll...yes, I will. Thank you, sir, you...my condolences, sir. Yes, sir, goodbye. For now.”_ Oh. She had called John’s...dad? Why had she called Samuel Watson? Before he could ask Sally why she had done that, why she had called a complete stranger, she was calling someone _else_. This time, she was calling Thomas Lestrade. That was a much shorter phone-call, and once she had that taken care of, she put one hand on his shoulder.

“Greg?”

“Hmm?” He didn’t dare move.

“I called your dad and General Watson. They’ll be here in an hour. I’ll stick around until one of them gets here, alright?”

“Thanks, Sal.” He muttered.

“I’ll fix some tea. Not half as good as Mrs Hudson makes it, but it’ll...it’ll do for now.” That got his attention and Greg popped his head up to look at Sally.

“I don’t know anyone in London who makes it the way she does! But I’ll take a cuppa, thanks.”

“Figured you might.” Sally patted him on the leg as she left the cabin. “I’d tell you don’t move, but considering Cassie’s sitting on you again, I don’t think that’s going to be a problem.”

“Nope. She’s a good dog.” Greg ruffled Cassie’s ears, “I think she knew I was having a panic-attack, Sal.”

“I believe it! Dogs are fucking smart animals!” He listened to the familiar sounds of Sally moving around in the kitchen. Twenty minutes later, she came back with a cup of tea. He struggled to sit up so he wouldn't spill the hot liquid and took the cup with both hands. His hands were shaking so hard he almost couldn’t hold the cup properly, but he managed. Somehow.

“Do you need anything else, Greg?”

“No. This…is good. For now.” He said between sips. Drinking tea was not only something else to focus on, it also forced him to breathe. Sally cradled the cup, her hand bracing Greg’s, holding him steady. It became a rhythm. Inhale, sip, hold, swallow, exhale. Repeat until the tea was gone.

Greg took a moment to look around the room, using the distraction to refocus himself. On the wall directly opposite the bed was a framed reproduction print of an old London building, the only indication of where or what it was contained in a small, handwritten caption at the very bottom of the image in the original: “Old Scotland Yard”. It was something his father had given him upon graduation from Police Academy, given Greg’s lifelong interest with the Metropolitan Police Service and its long history. Next to that was a map of the Caribbean Sea and the island chains that were so bloody popular with tourists from all over the world. Greg had memories of childhood summers spent in the British Virgin Islands with his parents, he thought it might be nice to go back there someday.

On the wall to his…left, were built-in shelves containing his collection of books. There was a bit of everything there. The American suspense-thriller writer Tom Clancy was a favourite, and the Scottish Robert Louis Stevenson, whose tales Greg had devoured as a child. Those volumes sat next to British classics like Mary Shelley, Charles Dickens, and Jane Austen. He picked out titles by sight, listing them in his head to distract himself from the panic-attack: Pride & Prejudice. The Hunt for Red October. Kidnapped. Frankenstein. Oliver Twist. Persuasion. Treasure Island. Patriot Games. There were others, those were the ones he could see right away.

He still remembered the first time he’d brought his sergeant home to this place, the dumbfounded expression on her face.

“You live on a houseboat?” She had asked.

“This is home. I call her _Endymion.”_                                                                                                   

“She’s...pretty. I like it.” Sally had just smiled when she realized that the 29-metre Dutch Klipper barge moored in Imperial Wharf Marina was actually perfect for Greg. He didn’t own a lot to begin with, and the smaller space was enough for him to be happy with. He could entertain guests if he needed to, and on nice days he could troll the Thames. It was a haven, a retreat. It was home enough for him. And right now, he needed to be home, he needed his retreat, his haven, so that he could process and grieve in peace. But he wasn’t alone. And that was important. Greg was not alone, and the people who were going to stay with him were people who either knew him or knew his situation. Anyone else could damn well wait until he felt like telling them. Until then, it was none of their fucking business.

* * *

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	3. Intervention

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg isn't alone in his grieving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greg meets Samuel Watson and gets...analytical.  
> **  
> This one's kind of short. But I got everything important into the chapter, I think, so...that'll do.  
> **  
> Also, the excerpts from the journal are all thanks to my pals Tindomerelhloni and BloodSeiryu. They're the masterminds behind Dear John, which is where I borrowed the idea for the journal from. Thanks, ladies!

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An hour and a half later, Greg was sitting on the deck with the notebook in one hand, a glass of whiskey in the other, and Cassie sitting at his feet. Sally was sitting across from him with a file from work, occasionally shooting him concerned glances and asking if he needed anything. Greg would just shake his head, take a sip of whiskey, and turn the page. At the sound of voices on the jetty, he raised his head and spotted the two men walking towards his boat-slip. The one in uniform was probably Samuel Watson. Greg had never actually met John’s parents, but considering how much _like_ him the older gentleman chatting with his father looked, there was no one else it could possibly be.

“Sal.” He spoke quietly. Sally looked over her shoulder and at the two men, then at Greg.

“Are you going to be alright?”

“Yeah. I...I need to do this.” He closed the journal and got unsteadily to his feet, tucking it into his pocket.

“Dad.” He greeted his father first, naturally.

“I brought food, and someone who wanted to meet you.”

“Thanks. Uh, you know the drill.” Greg rubbed his sleeve absently, a grounding gesture to keep himself stable. Thomas Lestrade looked him over and just gave him a tight hug.

“Come inside, son. We’ll talk in private.”

“Thanks, Dad.” Greg just looked around for a minute. “Why does the whole world seem...dim, all of a sudden?”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s like colours are missing, or something.” He frowned, “It doesn’t make any sense, there’s no logical reason for it.”

“Oh yes there is! You’re grieving, son, the world won’t look right for a long while.” Samuel Watson said gruffly, clapping Greg on the shoulder. “I would say it’s a pleasure to meet you, son, but not like this.”

“Christ, sir. No. I wouldn’t...Jesus, I’m so sorry.” Greg felt bad for how he looked right now, wearing John’s old fatigue jacket and tags like they were a long-term thing and not a one-night fling.

“Don’t be sorry, son. You’ve got nothing to apologise for. Come inside, I found some things of John’s you can have if you want.”

“Oh.” Greg was surprised by the offer, but he didn’t say no. Going inside, they all convened in the lounge, sitting around the table while the fathers divvied up the food. Greg wasn’t sure he could eat anything, but he got the feeling the three people staying with him right now wouldn’t let him get away with starving himself. John wouldn’t want him to forget himself, anyway. He’d said as much, more than once: **‘Don't be sad for me. If I die here I want you to know that I'm at peace. I want you to move on, live your life for both of us. Don’t get stuck on me, please. If I get out of here, I'll be home, with you. I’ll...come find you, somehow. It's a win-win... But Greg, if I don’t come home…Please, my darling, move on. For both our sakes. For my sake. Please. I…I love you, Greg Lestrade.’**

Greg picked at his food, wondering where in this wide, awful world John was right now. He ate enough to please the seniors and sat on the couch with Cassie, who didn’t seem to mind the visitors very much, she seemed to understand that they were here to _help_ Greg. And she knew Thomas, so...Greg distracted himself by going through the file Samuel had brought him, it was mostly pictures of John collected over the years. Among them was another copy of the picture Greg had two of and the picture John had ripped in half before making his escape. He looked at it carefully, wondering at how different those smiling young men were all these years later.

“Christ, we were a young pair of idiots.” He murmured, “Look at us.”

“Ready to take on the world and change it, come hell or high water.” Samuel smiled. “Y’know, he didn’t stop talking about you for about two straight weeks? Couldn’t get him to shut up about it.”

“I didn’t think I was anything that special.”

“My son sure thought you were. Did to his dying breath, I imagine.” Samuel’s expression was gentle and solemn. “You got the box?”

“Yeah. Some...posh government bloke brought it to me this morning. Kind of put a wrench in an already really bad day. No offence.”

“I’m not offended.” Samuel steepled his fingers in a particular fashion. “I’m the one who gave him that box and told him to deliver it to you in person, to let me know the instant you were in possession.”

“I take it you know more about him than any of us do, then?”

“I wouldn’t say that.” Samuel’s eyes sparkled a bit. “But you just never got a name for him before. You’ve seen him, met him at least one or two times, I imagine.”

“When the _hell_ would I have ever met someone like that? It’s my job to meet people, he didn’t look that familiar.”

“Sherlock Holmes?”

“What about him?” Sally narrowed her eyes. Greg rubbed his fingers through Cassie’s fur, trying to think of what that connection was. Whoever the posh government bloke was, he knew Sherlock? Greg had _met_ him before? When the hell would he...oh. Oh, wait a minute. He looked at his father, then at Samuel, and then at Sally.

“What?”

“He just figured it out.”

“You have _got_ to be fucking kidding me!” He spat, “That was Mycroft Holmes, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, it was.”

“Jesus Christ! No _wonder_ I thought he looked familiar but didn’t recognize him! Shit!” Greg ran one hand through his hair, “How the hell did _he_ get involved?”

“Because I asked him to get involved when my son went missing in an ambush back in June.”

“John thought it was a set-up of some kind.”

“I had my own suspicions. We’re currently tracking down the man who may have been responsible.”

“Moran?”

“Yes.”

“Make him suffer. Not just for whatever he did to John, but for those poor soldiers who came home in boxes. That’s not fair.” Greg frowned, “What was the problem between them? Can you say?”

“The simple version of the story is that my son turned down Colonel Moran’s advances, he was not interested.”

“A commanding officer?”

“No, not _his_ commanding officer. His commanding officer knew better than that, tried to protect John. So did I. But...well, my son has a bit of a stubborn streak. I don’t know if you knew him long enough to familiarize yourself with that.”

“I can only imagine.” Greg sighed. “So, you and his immediate commanding officer offered John an out and he said, thanks but no thanks, I’ll see you on a cold day in hell before I turn my back on duty?”

“Actually, that’s exactly what he said to us. Two weeks later, his unit was ambushed and he disappeared.”

“And two weeks ago, two months and three days after he went MIA, you carried out an exercise in tandem with Intelligence to recover your son, his body if he was dead, or some sign if he was gone again?”

“Exactly.” Samuel’s smile was genuine. “Oh, I can see how you got to be Detective Inspector! You’re a bright one, Lestrade.”

“It runs in the family.” Greg leaned his head on his fist, thinking things over. Treating this like a case seemed kind of impersonal, but it...worked. It was actually working to keep him from relapsing again. “Just like it runs in yours.”

“I always said he had an eye for the smart ones. You have not disappointed me.”

“I’d be Philip Anderson’s personal idiot if I didn’t think you had every file there is on me, every single one. You knew everything about me before I ever heard your name today.” Greg studied John’s father, there was so much of the son in him. He could see where John had gotten his looks and much of his attitude. It all made so much sense.

“Forgive my son, General. He was born with a deplorable excess of insolence and never grew out of it the way he should have.” Thomas gave him _that_ look, but Greg couldn’t be arsed to care. He wasn’t being rude, after all, just...blunt.

“Mine’s the same way, Commissioner,” Samuel promised. “I take no insult. Our sons wouldn’t have gotten nearly as far as they have in their lives if they were always well-behaved children.”

“Boy did he ring your number right, Boss.” Sally murmured.

“None of that, Donovan. You work for me, I work for _them_ , and I’m pretty sure _they_ work for Mycroft Holmes. Who owes me a good fucking explanation for things.” He rolled his eyes. “Not that I’ll get one from him.”

“Greg.”

“Smart. Said it. Smart. I like you, Lestrade.” Samuel chuckled around a sip of beer. “Let me know if you ever need a hand with things.”

“Sure. I’m not going to turn down extra resources.” He wasn’t sure what kind of help he could get from Samuel Watson, but it was one more contact he had under his belt if he ever needed it.

 

It was nearly midnight before Samuel and Thomas left the _Endymion,_ Sally was staying over to keep Greg company, and Greg had orders to take a week off. He could afford the time, so don’t even think about asking. After seeing the seniors on their way, Greg closed up for the night. Sally had done a good job with preliminary shut-down, and it wasn’t long before he was hoping for a peaceful night’s sleep. Not that he was expecting one, but he could always hope for one. Cassie slept at the foot of his bed, a warm weight curled up around his feet to keep him company and keep him safe.

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	4. Journal of John H. Watson, Captain in Her Majesty's Royal Army.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Excerpts from John's recovered diary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much thanks and gratitude to Tindo and Blood for letting me borrow this for my story! Go give "Dear John" a read, please? We all worked so hard on it, they worked so hard to give our readers new chapters, new letters, new insights.  
> 

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* * *

**Journal of John H. Watson, Captain in Her Majesty's Royal Army.**

 

**Day 1: (8 May 2013)**

**I have been captured. For some reason, unknown to myself, they have allowed me to keep the small notebook I usually use for medical notes on the field and do not seem bothered by my writing in it. They have also allowed me to keep my watch and the few items I had on my person, minus my medical kit and anything that would aid in my escape.**

**So far, in the 6 hours, I've been here, they have ignored me.  While that is ideal, I am thirsty and bound to get hungry at some point. I have a few energy bars on me, but I'm saving those. In case an emergency comes up.**

**I do believe that they know I am a doctor, not a fighter. I think that is the only reason they've spared my life so far. The Royal Army Medical Corps patch and the red medical cross on my sleeve are kind of obvious, aren’t they?**

**I have limited paper, and I don't know how long my "stay" will be, so I'm going to end this now. I will be making a tick for every day. My watch does not give the date, just the time, and I only have a small window in the corner of the room. Likelihood of seeing the moon is slim.**

**Greg, I have your picture with me. That first one, the only one of the two of us together that day so long ago. The one my dad took of us at Aldershot Garrison before I left for Kenya. That’s where they sent me that day, did you know that? I still have that picture, of all the things I’ve kept and discarded in my life since then. I miss you, which is bizarre because we only knew each other for maybe eight hours. But I've got you here with me. That much at least is a comfort.**

 

**-John**

******

**Day 3:**

**Things here have been quiet. So far they’ve still ignored me, other than tossing food into my room once a day and letting me out (across the hall) to use the bathroom. I suppose, while I’ve still got my wits about me, I should account how I managed to get into this mess.**

**My unit was chosen to go on a rescue mission, which isn’t in itself unusual. My team was meant to go 9 kilometres (on foot) into hostile territory to rescue 2 men who were blown off course when they parachuted out of a plane. I was to go along because one of the men had injured himself, but their radios went out before we could find out how badly. The mission was to be cut and dry, we were told.**

**We went in at the dead of night. And at first, it went well. Things were quiet. But then, just as we were nearing our stranded men, we were ambushed. I was pushed down to the ground by one of the men, told to stay down and radio for help. But before even half of my mayday went through, they were on us.** **Something hit my head, the butt of a gun I suppose, and the next thing I remember was waking up in this place. I have no clue if anyone else survived, or if they are here in this building with me. Or somewhere else, receiving the same treatment.**

**I can only hope that my mayday was heard. That help is on the way. It’s only a matter of time before they decide to torture me. I’ve spent the last few days preparing myself for it. I’ll write to you when things get bad. Imagine you’re reading it. It’ll help. You’ll help. I hope you’ve been thinking of me the way I've been thinking of you all these years. Do you still have that picture? Like I do?**

 

**-John**

******

**Day 7:**

**Ahh... so the torture has finally begun. Not sure what is worse. Knowing it will happen, or having it happen. Here’s the kicker. Sebastian Moran is here. You never knew him, I hope. And I hope you never meet him, he’s…despicable is a good word. We’ve had our “professional” differences, to put it mildly. Somehow it seems that he’s in charge of this whole place. I believe he orchestrated this whole ordeal, down to getting me kicked off of my old base. I’ll tell you that story later, if I get out of here alive.**

**My guards asked me what I was writing. I told them, I was writing to my cousin. Don't think they believed me, but it looks like they can't read English, and Moran doesn't care. He’s clearly only here for one reason. However, their lack of concern over my journal means they have no intention of releasing me, and thus the journal being found.**

**I'm tired now... going to get some sleep, if the hunger pains will let me. Still not desperate enough to eat the energy bars I have. Saving them. Things are only going to get worse. Maybe tomorrow they’ll give me a bucket of water… Could go for a wash… rather desperately. At least they've been letting me out once a day to use the toilet, aren’t I lucky?**

**I fear I'm in this for the long haul. Or until rescue. Though I won't hold my breath.**

**I've buried your picture under some dirt in my cell. I'm afraid they'll (Moran) find it and destroy it. I look at it at night when I know I’m not being watched.**

 

**God, I miss you...**

**-John**

******

**Day 14:**

**They've upgraded their means of torture. Starvation is their favourite,  electricity is used on me whenever I fall asleep during Moran’s sessions, which sometimes lasts hours. (The device they use is like a glorified cattle prod.)**

**They don't ask me questions. They don't want answers. They're just... doing this to me for the fun of it. And for training, it seems.**

**Now I wish I had taken my Dad up on his offer. To pull strings to keep me on base. I know he would have stopped the transfer if I’d just…asked him for it. Had I never left... never become a field medic. I wouldn't be here. I'd probably be on my way home soon. To you. To…London. Anywhere but this place.**

I' **m not alone here anymore. There is an American man, Thomas, here with me. Poor sod. It's nice having friendly company though.**

**I wish you were here. Not that I wish you to be captured and tortured. But I need your brain. I need to escape, but don't see a way out. You could find one. You could get me out of this mess. You were always clever, weren’t you? I…read up on you in the papers from home, kept track of you when I could. Couldn’t help myself. If only you knew where I was.**

**I hear footsteps. Time for round two.**

 

**-John**

******

**Day 20:**

**Thomas isn't doing well. He was already sick when they brought him in, now on top of 7 days of torture… He's a colonel, knows a bit more than I do, which I’m guessing means the torture is worse than with me. I'd tell you his story, how he came to join me, but I have precious little paper. He's held his own so far, but his wounds are getting infected. The cell we share just has a dirt floor, and we're not always let out to use an actual bathroom when we ask… and holding it for a day is less than ideal. So we're living in less than sanitary quarters. They won't give me medicine for him, and I fear that unless he's treated soon he won't make it.**

**I don't want to be alone... not here. Jesus, Greg. I want to go home.**

 

**-J**

******

**Day 23:**

**Thomas died in the night. They've collected his body already. I fear for myself now that I'm their only source of entertainment. Paper is running low (well, lower). Stomach is empty. Tempted to have an energy bar. But I'll need them once I escape.**

**-J**

******

**Day 35:**

**Sorry I haven't written in a while. There hasn't been anything new to write about. Not until today. Woke up at 3 am to the cell door being thrown open. They tossed in some English bloke. Didn't have a uniform on, but I could tell from his haircut that he was military.**

**One look at me, at my puffy eye, thin, bloodied state, and you could practically see the man's heart break in two. I know this is selfish of me, but I'm glad to have company again. I was just starting to not have any fun.**

 

**-J**

******

**Day 40:**

**Leg is broken. Andrew is a tit.  I'm done being here now. He tells me not to bother writing, that it's pointless, you’ll never get it. Makes fun of me when I look at your picture. But, Jesus, Greg. You’re the only thing keeping me alive in here.**

**Andrew says I talk to you in my sleep. That I hold full conversations with you. I think he’s jealous I’ve got someone here with me…. God, do you hear me? I’ve gone crazy. You’re not here with me…**

**They've allowed me to set my leg. That much is good, now the bones won't heal wrong. Christ, I'm so done. Paper is nearly gone. Greg, I'm sorry I haven't said this before now... I love you. Hope you find this, you deserve to have closure…**

 

**-J**

******

**Day 55:**

**Jesus, I need to get out of here. Need to plan my escape. Need to get home, to Greg.**

**Don't be sad for me. If I die here I want you to know that I'm at peace. I want you to move on, live your life for both of us. Don’t get stuck on me, please. If I get out of here, I'll be home, with you. I’ll...come find you, somehow. It's a win-win...**

**-J**

******

**Last journal entry, Day 63:**

**I'm making a break for it. Tomorrow. My guard is still injured. Broken ribs from the fight that broke out last night. (Drunken brawl that ended with half the guard leaving and the other half hung over.) Either I'll die trying or I'll succeed. Both options are better than staying and submitting myself to this hell.**

**My guard is always armed. He's got a long knife tucked under his left pant leg and an AK-47. Even in my state, I'm certain that a swift punch to his broken ribs will cause enough pain to momentarily stun him. That's all I need…three seconds to disarm him. I'll save a bullet for myself, in case it looks like I can't get out. I'm not coming back here.**

**Just outside my door, to the left, is the exit. I don't have to go far. But I don't know what sentry duty looks like outside anymore. They boarded up my small window. Can't see out. But as we’ve had nonstop rain for 2 days, I’m thankful my room isn’t soaking wet and muddy.**

 

**Greg, this will be my last entry. I'm leaving my dog tags behind along with everything I own. These letters too. Everything except your picture. I’m keeping it in a box I stole a while back and buried for safe-keeping. Should I escape, I don't want to be seen as British military. With the scraps of clothes, I've managed to obtain over the past few weeks along with, if I'm lucky enough to steal my guard's turban... I plan on blending in. At least until my wounds are healed and I can get out of hostile territory. I've learned enough of their language, Dari I think, these past few months to get by.**

**If this notebook is found by a friendly party before I am, I’m headed west and…south? Probably not wise to announce that, but I’ll have the bullet saved for myself should I require it…**

**It's now or never. And I refuse to die here, unless by my own hand. See you soon, yeah? But Greg, if I don’t come home…Please, my darling, move on. For both our sakes. For my sake. Please. I…I love you, Greg Lestrade.**

 

**-J**

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****


	5. Forsaken Miracles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg moves on, but never, ever forgets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greg gives Sherlock Holmes a bit of a telling-off in this one. Sherlock, as you've likely guessed, is not a key player in this story. I can't say how much of him we'll actually be seeing, since I want to focus more on Greg and John. He'll have his uses, of course, but he's not really a focus this time.

* * *

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It took Greg a full week to get past the urge to cry every time he saw John’s picture, he took to carrying around a different picture in his wallet than the one of the two of them. The torn half with just John that he had gotten back with John’s gear was taped to his computer monitor at work, a reminder that John was...out there, somewhere, not dead. Not yet. He couldn’t be.

The days stacked up into weeks stacked up into months and Greg slowly moved on. John had asked him to, so...he did. It was hard, but he moved on. Or tried to, at any rate. He wore John’s tags all the time, even when showering, and after Thomas gave him some of John’s old uniforms, he started wearing pieces to work. A jacket or a pair of trousers, just...something to keep John with him. He kept writing letters to John, as he had for twenty-one years, poured out his heart and how he really didn’t think John was dead, but he would wait as long as he had to for him to come home again.

 

When Sherlock Holmes saw the tattered image taped to the side of Greg’s computer, he studied it for a minute. Greg silently dared the pompous genius to say one nasty thing about it. It wasn’t like this was the first time he’d seen it, anyway.

“That’s John Watson, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“He’s been declared Missing In Action, you know.”

“I’m aware, thank you.” He narrowed his eyes. “Missing In Action is very different from Killed In Action. Until they find and identify a body as his, he’s not dead.”

“You think he’s still alive?”

“I _know_ he’s still alive. If he wasn’t, if General Watson had heard something, I would know.” Greg’s voice was cold as he got to his feet and faced down his informant. “Did you need something else, Mr Holmes?”

“No.” Sherlock looked at the filing box on Greg’s desk before picking it up, “I think I’m done here.”

“Yes, you are. Good day, Mr Holmes.” Greg saw him out to the street and retreated to his office once Sherlock was gone. That could have gone worse, dealing with Sherlock Holmes was always a gamble. He looked at his cluttered desk, hesitated over the pictures of John on his desk, and sighed. Better get some work done. Wouldn’t help anyone to sit and brood all day.

He worked until Sally came by with word that a call had come through for them.

“We don’t need Sherlock, do we?”

“I don’t know, Boss.”

“Well, let’s go see. Maybe, if I’m lucky, I can do without him this time.” Greg sighed and got up, collecting his gear. As he left his office, he tapped out a text to Samuel Watson’s number.

 

**Any word on John? Anything new? – Greg L.**

He wasn’t expecting a quick response and wasn’t disappointed when he didn’t get one until he was on-location at the crime scene they had been called to. At first glance, it didn’t look terribly difficult to solve, but Greg took a closer look anyway. As he was studying the body, his phone chimed with Samuel Watson’s text-tone. Sally had his phone, and she checked his messages for him.

“What’s he say?”

“Sir?”

“Hmm?”

“Um, you’d...oh, hold on.” She hesitated at his phone rang. “Sorry, Boss.”

“Just take it, Sal. I’ve got this.” He shook his head and let her walk away to take the phone-call. That was Sam Watson, Greg was a little worried about what he might be calling about. He wouldn’t call if it wasn’t important.

 _“Met Homicide, this is Donovan.”_ Sally gave her standard greeting, and Greg split his focus. She wasn’t out of earshot, just far enough from the body for propriety.

 _“Oh, Sam. Hi.”_ Yep, it was definitely Watson.

 _“Yes, sir, he’s busy at the moment. That’s why I answered his phone. We got your text, but he didn’t have a chance to read it before you called, sir. What’s that sir?”_ A pause. Greg looked over his shoulder. Sally was facing him, making sure he could see her face clearly.

 _“Oh, absolutely, sir! Just a minute!”_ She looked at Greg and made a quick gesture. Greg got up and left the body behind.

“What’s on?”

“You’d better talk to him. He won’t say what he wants, but it’s important.” Sally pressed the phone into his hand. “You go talk to Sam, I’ll cover this. Go on.” She gave him a push and he walked to the tape-line, ducking under it and taking shelter by a nearby squad-car before he dared lift the phone to his ear.

 _“General Watson, Inspector Lestrade here. Good to hear from you, sir.”_ Maybe not, but Greg could be polite.

_“Greg?”_

_“Yes, sir?”_

_“We...have him.”_ Sam Watson sounded...breathless. Maybe he was crying. Those three words shot through Greg like lightning.

 _“You...Jesus Christ.”_ He breathed out, his free hand going automatically to the tags around his neck. _“Is he...?”_

_“Yes, yes he is. You can’t see him yet, I’m afraid, but he is alive and in far better shape than we were expecting.”_

_“Fucking Christ. Thank god. John.”_ Greg covered his eyes with one hand, not caring as much as he should have that he was about to cry in public. _“Where did you find him?”_

_“In Qatar. We have no idea how he actually got that far from Afghanistan. Our last location on him was just outside of the village of Muqur.”_

_“Where the hell is that?”_

_“Northwestern Afghanistan. We found an abandoned truck a mile outside of the village. But no one could tell us if they had seen John since then. Or wouldn’t tell us.”_

_“But he’s alive?”_ Greg asked faintly. He felt...dizzy.

_“Yes, I’ve seen him for myself.”_

_“Thank god!”_ Greg leaned against the car beside him and put his head down against the roof. _“Thank you so much for calling me, Sam.”_

_“I had to. I promised, didn’t I? If I heard anything, I’d let you know?”_

_“And you absolutely did. Thank you. I’m...Christ, I think I forgot how to breathe.”_

_“Just take it easy, Greg. As soon as John is home properly, you’ll know, I promise.”_

_“That’s...okay. I can...well, I guess I can be patient a bit longer, then.”_ Greg could barely hear himself speak. He didn’t remember saying goodbye to Sam before he hung up, or even if he managed to hang up, he only knew he had dropped his phone because it clattered against the pavement. He followed in short order, his knees hitting the asphalt with a painful jolt. Greg’s head was spinning, his entire sense of equilibrium was off-kilter and he felt the ground sway. The frame of the car was solid against his sudden lack of anything like control, and he pressed his forehead to the metal of the door, chest heaving. This wasn’t quite a panic attack, but it sure as hell felt like one. John was alive. He was alive, and...soon, he would be home for good. Would Greg get to see him, though? Would John _want_ to see him? After all the shit he’d been through, the things he’d seen and suffered, would he want anything to do with Greg Lestrade?

“Greg?”

“He’s alive.” Greg managed to gasp out. “Fuck. He’s alive.”

“They found him?”

“In Qatar, Sally. What the fuck was he doing in Qatar? How did he _get_ there?!” Greg looked up and over his shoulder at Sally, “He’s...”

“You can’t see him yet, can you?”

“No. I don’t...actually think he’s in England right now. He’s somewhere else. Sam wouldn’t say where.”

“Where isn’t important. John Watson’s alive, that’s all that matters.”

“Sally, could you...”

“Already did, Boss.” She picked up his phone and held out her hand to him. “Called Dimmock as soon as you walked off. He said it was no problem.”

“Did you call Dad?”

“Yep. He said to take the rest of the day off and he’ll see you on Monday.”

“Thanks, Sally.” Greg groaned as he heaved himself to his feet. “Getting too fucking old for this kind of shit.”

“Come on, I’ll take you home.”

“You don’t have to drive me home, Sally. I’ll just...get a cab.” Greg brushed off his trousers and tugged on his overcoat.

“Oh no, you don’t.” Sally shook her head and slipped her arm through his. “I’m driving you home. I’m not going to stay, but I want to make sure you get home safely.”

“Fine.” He knew when to pick his fights with Sally.

Sally drove him home, stopping to get food so he wouldn’t forget to eat. It was almost five pm when he left the scene, so it was reasonable to stop for dinner. They got Indian from a local place on their way from the scene in Battersea to Imperial Wharf, stopping at a nearby Sainsbury’s for drinks. Greg grabbed a six-pack, Sally found a bottle of wine she liked. Once they had made their stops, it was back to Imperial Wharf. Cassie was, of course, absolutely thrilled to see them, and Greg gave her a bit of a fuss.

“Hi, girl. I’ll give you a good long walk tomorrow, yeah? Got the day off, got the whole bloody weekend off, actually.” He ruffled her ears, “Not sure how long _that_ will last, but I’ll take a break when I can get one.”

“Cassie’s a good girl, isn’t she?” Sally smiled as she divvied up the takeaway and took care of feeding Cassie. “Good for you, for sure.”

“Oh, absolutely.” Greg looked at his sergeant, “Best thing that happened in a while, actually.” Sometimes, when he had paperwork days, he would bring Cassie to work with him. Sometimes he brought her to work just for the company, and if he was called out on a case, she spent time in his father’s office.

“Alright, you. Sit down.” Sally ordered, setting down two plates and going back for the drinks. “Time to eat.”

“Thanks, Sal.” He left off with Cassie and sat down after washing his hands.

Dinner was quiet but pleasant, conversation was neutral and Sally didn’t bring up John at all, and after doing the wash-up, they decided to watch a movie. Greg settled on The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey, and decided that the bloke who had been cast to play Bilbo looked a lot like John.

“I think your boyfriend has a celebrity Doppelganger,” Sally muttered as they watched Bilbo steal the One Ring of Power from Gollum.

“You’re just jealous.”                    

“Oh, I don’t go after the unavailables.” Sally rolled her eyes at him, “I’m not going to steal your boyfriend.”

“Is he my boyfriend, though? We only met once and never saw each other again, never even wrote letters.”

“Yes, he is, because I said so.”

“God, I love you, Sally.” He chuckled and took a sip of beer. “I can’t wait for them to promote you.”

“So, when do you think you’ll see him again?”

“I have no idea. At this rate?” He sighed, unwilling to put too much hope into wishful thinking. For starters, he didn’t even know where John _was_ right now, if he was even in the country. Probably not, if they’d found him in Qatar of all godforsaken places. How had he even _gotten_ there? How had he gotten from Afghanistan, all the way around the Persian Gulf, to Qatar? He got the feeling John probably hadn’t travelled by boat. Maybe he had, but that...that was still an incredible journey.

“Don’t worry, Boss.” Sally said with an affectionate pat on the arm, “You’ve got enough to worry about without getting stuck in your head again, alright?”

“Well, yeah, but...”

“No buts.” She cut him off. “Listen, if I’m right about this, I will buy you both a round at Pub Night.”

“I don’t think that’s how it works, Sal.”

“Yes, it is. I want to meet this bloke, and if that means buying drinks, I’ll do it. I’ve spent twelve years listening to you talk about him.” She gave him a stern look as she finished her wine. “I’m the only one who gets to rag on you for keeping his picture this long. I think it’s about fucking time you get what you deserve.”

“I don’t know if I deserve John.”

“Stop it. Shut up and just watch the damn movie. No more talking.” She rolled her eyes. Greg couldn’t help a sad smile, but he didn’t say anything. After the end-credits had rolled, Sally was too drunk to drive home and Greg just gave her the aft cabin to sleep it off.

“Good night, Greg.”

“’Night, Sally. See you in the morning.” He headed for his cabin, taking Cassie with him, after making sure the _Endymion_ was secure for the night. Greg hoped he would sleep well, God knew he needed it. At least he had the weekend off. Hopefully, he would get the full weekend to himself, he needed a break of some kind. It had been kind of mad at work lately and he was running on fumes.

* * *

* * *

 


	6. Bittersweet: Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A crime-scene, a dead body, a reunion. All in a days' work, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John's home. That is all.  
> **  
> What it says on the tin: Part 1

* * *

* * *

John Watson followed Sherlock Holmes down a quiet residential street in Central London, wondering what part of “slow down” had gone over the taller man’s head.

“Sherlock, slow _down_ , Jesus!” He snapped, “For the last bloody time, I can’t _walk_ as fast as you!”

“Oh, do hurry up, Watson!” The man looked over his shoulder, “I don’t want Forensics to muck it up! Come on!”

“Bloody Christ,” John muttered, tightening his grip on the cane in his right hand.

“Oh, and I can’t promise they’re going to let you in with a dog. They may not like that much.”

“Max goes where I go.” He said gruffly, giving a tug on the lead in his left hand. It was an unnecessary gesture, really, the dog in question was very obedient and never left John’s side. Hadn’t for months, actually. John couldn’t quite remember _how_ he had come to have the dog, but it didn’t matter. Max was a former Military Working Dog, John had no idea what had happened to his original handler, and John was considering getting him trained up as a companion animal, a service dog now that he was local to London and had access to the resources, if not the time and finances to accomplish it.

“Well, don’t blame me if they won’t let you through.”

“I shouldn’t be here at all, you’re the one who got excited about a murder and dragged me along because you said you needed an assistant.” He looked over at Max, who was showing familiar body-language. “Don’t get your hopes up, lad, if they say you can’t go in, I can’t change that. Police procedure is a sticky thing.” It was hard to believe he’d actually been home for a week and a half, had been living in a small, messy flat on Baker Street for that long with one of the strangest people he’d ever met. Meeting Sherlock Holmes had been sheer chance, but it had given John somewhere to live, or at least settle for a while. This outing was actually the first time in four days John had left the flat at all, following a PTSD episode in the Tesco of all places.

When they reached the tape-line and barriers, John slowed a bit while Sherlock just let himself through, exchanging words with the woman on duty, a plain-clothes officer.

“Hello, Holmes. What are you doing here?”

“I’m here to see your boss, Donovan, not chit-chat.” Sherlock addressed her as “Donovan”. Hmm. Not quite friends, then.

“Max, sit.” He said quietly. Max obediently sat by him and John just stood by and observed. This was not his fight, and he wasn’t about to get himself involved unnecessarily.

“Why?”

“I was invited.” Sherlock just gave her an insincere, superior smile.

“ _Why?”_

“I think he wants me to take a look.”

“Well, you know what _I_ think, don’t you?”

“Always, Sally.” That smile again. “I even know you didn’t make it home last night.”

“I don’t ... Er, who’s this?” Donovan trailed off, having spotted John standing nearby.

“Colleague of mine, Doctor Watson.” Sherlock looked over his shoulder at John, “Doctor Watson, Sergeant Sally Donovan. Old friend. Don’t mind the dog, it goes where he does apparently.”

“A colleague? How do _you_ get a colleague?!” Donovan clearly didn’t believe Sherlock, not that John blamed her, “What, did he follow you home?”

“Would it be better if I just waited and ...” John was more than happy to wait here, this was nothing he wanted to be doing right now.

“No.” Sherlock lifted the line for him, ignoring Donovan completely. John debated saying no thanks, but decided this was not the time to argue about procedure and such. He wasn’t supposed to be here, neither of them was supposed to be here, and yet...well, he could think of worse things he could be doing with his time, this wasn’t actually so bad. Just...unusual. With a resigned sigh, he ducked under the line.

“Um, can...it’s alright if my dog comes in? He won’t bother anyone, I can leave him alone for a few minutes if I need to.”

“Oh, no, that’s...fine, actually.” Donovan looked at him closely as he adjusted his grip on Max’s lead. “Er, sorry, what did you say your name was?”

“John Watson.”

“Watson? Oh!” Suddenly, Donovan’s eyes widened and she smiled, “Oh, hold on! You’re John Watson! Oh my god, you’re home!” John was surprised when all signs of hostility just dropped away. “Oh my god,  you’re....really here!”

“Donovan! Not now!” Sherlock yelled from somewhere else on the scene. “Case on!”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, but ... Shit.” Donovan seemed to be debating on something. “Um, this is probably a terrible thing to ask, but...can I give you a hug? Please?”

“Of course.” He shifted his cane to his left hand. “But, why?”

“Because I’ve spent twelve years looking at your picture wondering what kind of man you would turn out to be and now...you’re here! On our scene!”  Donovan’s hug was firm and...strangely comforting. John was so tetchy about people touching him these days, but she had asked first and she wasn’t going to hurt him.

“Christ, he’s not going to believe this.”

“Donovan, leave John alone, for Christ’s sake!”

“Oh, sod off, Holmes!” Donovan called back, right as her radio squealed. “Oh, sorry, I need to take this.”

“Don’t let me get in your way, Sergeant Donovan.” John smiled and let her take the call.

_“Yes, sir?”_

_“Donovan, any sign of Holmes yet?”_

_“He’s here, sir, just let him through.”_ Donovan looked at John and smiled at him, _“He’s...brought someone with him, sir. Just so you know.”_

_“Jesus Christ. He knows the rules! Damn it, Donovan.”_

_“I would say I’m sorry, sir, but that wouldn’t quite be true. Trust me, you’re not going to mind this one, I promise you.”_

_“Donovan.”_

“You can go on, John.” She whispered, taking John’s hand and squeezing, “It’s great to finally meet you!”

“Yeah, I can take Max?”

“Absolutely. Go on.” She smiled. Donovan raised her radio as she gave him a gentle push. She clearly knew someone who knew or had known John, if she was this excited to meet him.

_“I’m bringing them in, sir.”_

As per regulations, Donovan led them to the house containing the crime-scene Sherlock had been called to attend. The scene was down a flight of stairs in the kitchen. The house was a four-storey mews house with a lower ground floor, ground floor, and two upper floors.

“Can you manage the stairs, Captain?” Donovan asked as Sherlock disappeared down the stairs in question, completely leaving John to fend for himself.

“Um. Should be able to.” John only had the cane because sometimes his left knee buckled. It had healed up fine after being broken during a two and a half-month captivity in Afghanistan, but there were just bad days overall. “Can I let Max off his lead, do you think? I can’t manage the stairs with both hands full.”

“Oh, can I handle Max? I love dogs, spend my off-hours playing with the boss’s dog.”

“Sure, if you want to give him a try.” John usually didn’t like other people handling his dog, but there was just something about Donovan that he trusted. His instincts were fairly reliable, and he liked the vibe he got from Donovan. When he handed the lead to Donovan, he looked at his ex-MWD.

“You, you behave yourself for Sergeant Donovan, alright? Don’t be an idiot. She’s a good one, okay?” Max just wagged his tail and gave Donovan a sniff. She must have passed muster because Max sat down next to her.

“Is that a good sign?”

“Yes it is.”

“Here, I’ll go down first and you can follow.” Donovan went down a few steps and John carefully followed. He alternated between the hand-rail and Donovan’s offered assistance to get down the curved staircase leading to the lower ground floor. Sherlock, of course, was down there already and talking with someone John couldn’t see yet.

“It’s _obvious_ , Lestrade! It’s right in front of your nose!”

“Sherlock.”

“This is normal, I take it?” He whispered, unable to help a smile at the weary tone of voice.

“Unfortunately. And last night was a bad night, so Holmes’s mood probably isn’t helping any.”

“Is that why you weren’t home at yours last night?”

“Yep. Every so often, I stay over at the Inspector’s place to keep him company.” Donovan gave him a hand down to the next step. “It’s been a rough couple of months, since about August, and the last two weeks have been touch and go.”

“Oh. Well, I’ll try not to cause _more_ trouble, then, I guess.” John shrugged and got a look at things as they reached the bottom of the stairs. He saw Sherlock, who had his back to them, and another gentleman in a dark mackintosh overcoat.

“I’m here because _you_ said you needed my help!” Sherlock was saying, clearly unimpressed, “You promised me a 6, Lestrade, this is not a 6! _John_ could have solved this from Baker Street! And he’s not a detective of any sort!”

“You’re here because I don’t know what I’m looking at, and if you won’t tell me something _useful_ for once, instead of insulting me, then you can just...just...” The man arguing with Sherlock trailed off, having gotten a look at John, who took the lead from Donovan. John stood completely still, sort of frozen in place. He was good with faces, he sort of had to be, and the silver-haired detective staring at him like he was a ghost looked terribly familiar.

“It can’t be.” The man whispered. John carefully pulled a photograph from his pocket and looked at it. He still had the tattered half of a photograph that, at the time he had defaced it, was twenty-one years old. The man in the photograph was a great deal younger, but the eyes were the same. He looked from the dusty, tattered image of a very young Constable Gregory Lestrade to the much older man standing only a few feet away and swallowed hard. It was _definitely_ Greg.

“Shit.”

“Oh, _now_ what?” Sherlock growled, turning a bit to see what had distracted Lestrade, “For god’s sake, there’s a dead body and you’re...oh.”

“Holmes, why don’t you and I go back upstairs?” Donovan said softly. “Come on back upstairs and I’ll fill you in on what we’ve got.”

“Of course, Sergeant. Thank you.” Well, that was a hell of an attitude one-eighty. Sherlock didn’t say anything to John as he went to follow Donovan back upstairs. John didn’t even notice them leaving, to be completely honest. Jesus Christ, this was happening, wasn’t it? This wasn’t a figment of his imagination running wild again?

“John?” Greg’s voice was soft, broken, uncertain.

“Yeah.” He nodded, his own voice was a bare whisper.

“Oh my god.” Greg took a few careful steps towards John and stopped. “I don’t...oh my god. I’m...you’re...”

“Yeah.”

“John?”

“Yeah.” He held out one hand. This was as weird for him as it was for Greg. Touching was...hesitant. A brush of fingers, a flinch and retreat, a second attempt. Two fingers to a pulse-point, careful not to close around his wrist.

“They didn’t...”

“Never. Moran said he didn’t...”

“Don’t. Say his name.” Greg touched his lips with one hand, “Please don’t.”

“Okay.” John took that hand and looked at the man he had kept in memory and in heart for twenty-one long years. “I’m...I’m so sorry, Greg.”

“Why?”

“I never wrote to you, I never called, I just...disappeared.”

“I never expected you to do any of that, I was just happy I had even a few hours. I still have that picture, y’know? The original copy, a duplicate, and the torn half you kept with your gear.”

“You did get it, then?”

“Mycroft Holmes brought the box to me a few months ago.”

“Oh, is that what Donovan was talking about?” John studied the brown eyes that had kept him company in many dark moments.

“Yeah.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. You’re alive. You’d be sorry if you were dead, but you’re not dead.”

“No, I guess not.” John couldn’t help a shaky chuckle, “But it was damn close a few times!”

“Too fucking close! Next time someone offers you a deferment or another way out of something...”

“Don’t turn them down?”

“Don’t you dare turn them down!” Greg finally gave in and threw his arms around John, who just took the hug. He’d dreamed about it for so long, the real thing was...almost disorienting. “Don’t be a damn hero who does it because it’s your fucking duty or some bullshit! Get yourself killed, why don’t you?”

“Well, you’d just bring me back to do the job yourself a second time, wouldn’t you?”

“After I gave you proper hell for being an idiot in the first place!” Greg’s whole frame shook. “Christ, John, that news was the worst I could have gotten that day.”

“You never believed I was dead, not for a minute.”

“Of course I didn’t! They didn’t have a body, and in my business, speculation is worthless! Speculation leads to assumptions, and those are often false! Without evidence, how the hell was I supposed to believe you were actually dead?”

“I guess they weren’t expecting a bloody Detective Inspector, were they?”

“No.”

“Well, unlike that poor soul, I am _very_ much alive.” John looked briefly at the body behind them. “What happened?”

“Oh, hell if I know. I don’t suppose you’re interested in taking a look?”

“Not particularly. Sherlock was being a bit less than helpful?”

“Just a bit.”

“Well, I’m no detective, and I’m certainly no forensic pathologist, but...I know a thing or two about dead bodies.” John took one step towards the body when Greg stepped aside.

“John?”

“Hm?”

“What do I do if you have a PTSD episode?”

“Get Max. He’ll take care of the rest.”

“Who’s...Max?”

“My dog.”

“Oh. You...”

“Long story, that.” He studied the body and sniffed. If this didn’t push him into an episode, that would be great. Greg stood nearby as he circled the body and got a closer look at it.

“Well?”

“This was clearly murder, but you probably wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t. Er, the victim is...male, mid-forties? Married, not very happily going by the state of things.” John shook his head, “This was a close-quarters struggle. Defensive wounds on his hands and forearms, blood under the fingernails. He was startled, but I doubt this was a house-breaking.” His vision was getting a bit dark at the edges, he felt his pulse racing. This wasn’t good.

“Christ, you’re as good as Sherlock! And far more forthcoming!” Greg looked at him, “Are you okay?”

“I should go back upstairs.”

“Absolutely! Come on, then.” Greg led him back upstairs, giving him a hand when he needed it. John ended up sitting down at the top of the stairs, out of breath for a number of reasons.

“Donovan?”

“Yeah, Boss?”

“Can you come ‘ere a minute?”

“Yeah! Do you need Max?”

“Yes, we do. Thank you.” He listened to Greg and Donovan, holding his head in his hands and reminding himself to breathe. Breathe in, hold, breathe out. Repeat. Slow, deep, breaths. Max, knowing exactly what was going on, sat next to John and put his head on John’s shoulder for a while before getting his head under John’s arm and giving him something to hold onto. John was aware of someone sitting next to him, down on the next riser. It was Greg.

“John? Are you alright?”

“N-no. Just...”

“Do you need anything? What can I do?”

“Just...stay.” John reached out one hand. “Here.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Take my hand, Greg.” Usually he didn’t like people touching him while he was going through this, but he had been dreaming of Greg for years, aching for another chance to touch him, to see him again, had made himself a promise if he got out of Afghanistan alive that he would trust Greg when he couldn’t trust anyone else.

“What?”

“Take my hand. Please.”

“Okay.” He felt Greg’s hand slide into his and gripped tight. Probably too tight, and he was sorry about that.

“I’ve got you, John. It’s alright, I’m right here.” Greg’s voice was soft and soothing, “Focus on my voice, John.” He just nodded and tried to focus.

“Can you...talk to me?”

“What about?”

“Anything.” He raised his head a bit. “Tell me about...your dog? Donovan said you had a dog?”

“Oh! Cassie? Sure! I’d love to! You’d love her, I think.”

“Her name is Cassie?”

“Yeah. She’s a, um, Rottie. Six-years-old. Big girl.”

“Aren’t Rottweilers, uh, kind of...aggressive?”

“Oh, not Cassie! The breed might have a reputation, but she’s the biggest sweetheart ever! She’s a little reserved around strangers, but once she gets to know you, she’s your best friend in the world. Thinks she’s a bloody lap-dog, which doesn’t _quite_ work out.” Greg chuckled, “She always seems to pick out the dog-people when we’re out, and she has no problem warming up to them real quick. And she loves children. She’s pretty damn social, which I appreciate. That’s her.” He was aware of Greg holding something out to him and looked at a phone screen. It showed a pretty Rottweiler posing for the camera. It was a selfie, actually, Greg was in the picture, too.

“She’s beautiful.” John smiled and rubbed his cheek against Max’s fur. “She any good with other dogs?”

“Yeah, she’s fine with other dogs, I’ve worked with her on that. Kind of pushy with dogs smaller than she is, but generally fine with dogs her own size once introductions have been made and a pecking order established.” Greg pocketed his phone, “You okay now?”

“Yeah, I think so. Sorry about that.”

“It’s fine, John. I wasn’t expecting to see you at all, so...”

“Lucky us, I guess.” John sat up a bit.

“Lestrade, you’re going to want to question the wife and brother-in-law.” Sherlock spoke up from behind them, “His brother, not hers. This was a crime of passion.”

“Thanks, Sherlock.”

“Do you need anything else?”

“Not right now, I’ll get your statements later.” The resignation in Greg’s voice was kind of...upsetting.

“No.” John adjusted his grip on the cane, looking at Greg. “We’ll get that taken care of right now. There’s absolutely no reason to put it off.”

“But, John, I’m...”

“ _Not_ busy. We’re going back to The Met to finish our bit, and _then_ you can run off and do whatever it is you’ve got in mind.” John glared at his flat-mate as Greg helped him to his feet, assistance he wasn’t about to refuse, “Am I clear on this, Sherlock?”

“I don’t understand why this can’t wait until later? He already said it was fine.”

“He did not, and you know that as well as I do. I don’t ask for much, Sherlock, I really don’t.” John shook his head sharply, “It will not kill _you_ to spend a few more minutes or hours behaving yourself and getting your reports done so Greg can finish whatever else is involved in closing this case. Now, come on, we’ll leave this to the professionals.” As he left the house, he looked at Greg, who just stared at him in awe.

“Where is your office these days, Inspector? The last time we had anything to do with each other, you were somewhere on Victoria Street, I think.”

“I...yeah, I’m still there, actually. I’ll...meet you there, then?”

“Yes. Sorry about this.”

“Stop apologizing!” Greg shook his head, “I’ll see you boys in a few, then.” Nodding, John left the house and caught up with Sherlock at the end of the street. They got a cab and he gave the Victoria Street address. It was only quiet for a while before he’d had enough of Sherlock being stroppy.

“What, Sherlock?”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re fidgeting. Speak your mind already.”

“Why are we doing this? I have other things to do. And there is no reason for me to go to The Met right now anyway.”

“There absolutely is, and I’ve had enough of your attitude today.” John looked out the window as London slid by them.

“Oh, please. Just admit the only reason you want to go _now_ is because you want to spend more time with Gareth.”

“His name is Greg! And it shouldn’t be any of your fucking business whether I’m using this as an excuse to spend time with a man I’ve only spent a _night_ with before now or not! I _missed_ him, Sherlock! Desperately enough I hallucinated him while I was being held hostage! Did you know that?”

“Oh, I...”

“Sherlock, I’ve spent the past five and a half months either locked up in a cell the size of a standard closet or trying to get home without getting recaptured and killed.” He refused to make eye contact. “You can’t tell me you’re not at least a _bit_ familiar with what I went through?”

“Yes, John.” All haughtiness fled and Sherlock sort of...deflated. “I’m...more than a bit familiar with the experience.”

“Then all I ask is that you respect that I want to spend time with someone important to me. He was there for me at that house, Sherlock, while I was having an episode.”

“You won’t let me touch you when that happens, which it has, twice. Once in public. You just ask for Max if he’s not already with you and don’t let anyone touch you. Why is Lestrade any different?”

“Because I _trust_ Greg.”

“But you only knew him for a few hours. We’ve lived together for a week and a half.”

“And you have given me very few reasons to _trust_ you. I don’t _know_ you, Sherlock.”

“But you don’t...”

“Greg made an effort to make me feel like I mattered, both twenty-one years ago and today. All I’m asking for right now is for your cooperation and your...consideration.” All he got was sullen silence, but he suspected his point had been made.

When they got to the Victoria Street building, John paid the fare and followed Sherlock into the building. It didn’t take long to get to Greg’s office, and despite him not being there, Sherlock found the necessary papers and got to work.

“Here, you might as well get your reports written.” He gave one packet to John and sat down behind the desk.

“Sherlock, don’t sit there. Sit at the work-table, but do not sit behind Greg’s desk. That’s disrespectful.” John frowned, “It’s bad enough you “forget” his name, but this is inconsiderate.”

“Where am I supposed to sit, then?”

“Sit at the work-table.”

“Why do you get to sit at the desk?”

“Because I’m not sitting _behind_ it. Just...Finish your reports.” He gave Sherlock a look. John didn’t _want_ to be here, he really didn’t, but he knew if he didn’t get this done now it would never happen. It was quiet until Sherlock finished his reports, which he dropped on the desk as he left the office.

“I’m going to the morgue. May not be home tonight.”

“Stay out of trouble, I’m not fronting bail-money if you get caught doing something stupid.”

“Why on earth would I do that?”

“Sherlock...”

“If you need the house to yourself tonight, I’m not going to be around, so don’t worry about me. Mrs Hudson might have something to say about it, but I doubt she’ll complain too much.” Oh. John wasn’t sure how to take that. Was he _that_ obvious?

“Oh. Okay. Well, have fun, I guess.”

“I get to play with dead bodies, of course I’ll have fun.” Sherlock smirked, “Good luck.”

“Mm. Thanks.” He waited until the door closed and sighed. Well, damn it. Max laid his head on John’s knee with a soft whine. John smiled as he stroked his acquired pet’s head.

“It’s okay, boy. Just been a strange sort of day, hasn’t it?” He shook his head, “Could think of worse things to be doing right now.” It was quiet in the office, but John didn’t mind. Of course, he knew better than to think the quiet would last very long, so when the door of the office opened about five minutes after Sherlock left, he wasn’t terribly surprised. Half-expecting Greg, John was a little surprised when the man who entered was _not_ Greg. It was his father, Thomas Lestrade.

“Inspector Lestrade!” He was on his feet in no time, offering a hasty salute.

“It’s Commissioner Lestrade now, Captain. My son is the one who gets to answer to Detective Inspector Lestrade these days.” Thomas just smiled, “At ease, son.”

“Sir.” He relaxed a bit. Thomas wasted no time closing the door enough to indicate necessary privacy from anyone outside and came right to John, studying him closely.

“Too skinny, son.”

“Better than I was, sir.” He shrugged, “You’d be surprised how…helpful the locals can be when you really need help with something.”

“I can only imagine. At great risk to their own safety, these people were willing to give assistance to an injured British soldier and not only provide food but shelter, medical care, and a way to get you from one location to the next.”

“It got me home, didn’t it?”

“It absolutely did.” Thomas pulled John into a careful hug. “It’s so good to see you, John.”

“It’s good to be home, sir.” John accepted the gesture of familiarity.

“Are you going to the Remembrance Day ceremonies tomorrow?”

“I _have_ to, sir.” John felt a tug of sadness. “Someone has to stand up for those boys, make sure their last sacrifice doesn’t go unacknowledged.”

“It won’t, John. You won’t let it go, and you shouldn’t. Remember them tomorrow, and often.” Thomas shook his head and squeezed his arm carefully. “If you ever need anything, John, anything at all, just give me a call.”

“You have better things to do with your time than worry about me, sir.”

“We both know that’s bullshit. If it’s because of Holmes, or for anything else, if you just want someone to listen while you talk or don’t, call me.” Thomas pressed a card into his hand, “I mean that, anything. Any time.”

“Oh.” John turned the card over in his hand. It was a business-card with Thomas’s name, rank, badge number, and all of his contact information including three phone-numbers and two addresses. One address was for the Victoria Street offices, the other…it must be his home address, which John was kind of surprised to see on the card. And the phone-numbers were assigned to his work, home, and his mobile.

“Call me, John. Don’t ever think this is something you have to go through alone.” Thomas squeezed his hand sternly, “Call me, or call your old man. We’re here to help you get your feet back under you properly.”

“Thank you, sir. Thank you…so much. For everything.” John wasn’t sure if he would ever be brave enough to call any of those numbers, but the fact that someone who was more or less a complete stranger was reaching out to him, giving him a resource he wasn’t brave enough to ask for, was…it was actually kind of nice. Sensing John’s distress, Max inserted himself into the equation by getting between John and Thomas.

“It’s alright, boy.” John reassured his dog, “He’s a good one, don’t worry about him.”

“Oh, who’s this handsome gentleman?” Thomas studied Max. “Yours?”

“Mine by acquisition and chance. I don’t know what happened to his original handler, he was one of us, but I found Max. Or…I think he found _me_ , actually.”

“What breed is he?”

“German Shepherd cross.”

“Explains his unusual colour.” Thomas offered Max one hand for inspection, passed muster when Max sat next to him like he’d sat next to Donovan earlier.

“I think he found me before I escaped, but he couldn’t...he couldn’t _get_ to me,” John recalled his guards complaining about a dog that kept coming to the compound and they kept having to run it off.

When he had made his escape, killing twelve men in five minutes and stealing a truck, he remembered Max coming out of hiding from behind a stack of sandbags, still wearing his armour vest. Without thinking twice, John had called Max to his side and they’d made their escape together, driving until the car got a flat tyre outside of the village of Muqur. That had been the first leg of a very long, very bizarre journey that had ended up taking him 4,359 klicks from Samira, Afghanistan to Abū Nakẖlah, Doha, Qatar. He still remembered how dumbfounded the soldiers stationed at Al Udeid had been when he showed up not only alive but in fairly good health after he’d been missing for almost six months. And now, he was home.

“How far was it, John?”

“2,708 miles from Samira to Al Udeid, and 3,245 miles from Doha to London.” He had slept for most of the flight home, a non-stop from Doha International Airport to Heathrow, but he still remembered every agonizing mile between Samira and London, between captivity and freedom.

“And it took you almost three months to get home. God bless you.” Thomas shook his head in awe, “Welcome home, Captain Watson.”

“Thank you, sir.” John held onto Thomas’s hand tightly, using the contact to ground himself again. Thomas didn’t seem to mind at all. The door of the office creaked open a bit and John looked over to see who was coming in. This time, it _was_ Greg. He shouldered his way into the office, weary and worn out from the thankless work he did.

“Christ, I hate talking to people who think they can get away with lying to the police. We’re not morons.” He muttered, raking one hand through his hair.

“You found them?”

“Of course we _found_ them! They’re the ones who called us!” Greg spat, looking at his father first, “That was the stupidest thing!”

“Wait a minute. The suspects called the police on their own crime?” John frowned.

“Yes! And they thought we wouldn’t figure it out! We wouldn’t know any better!”

“But you did?”

“Because Sherlock Holmes was actually _useful_ for once. Still a sodding prick, but a useful one.”

“Did you get them to confess to it?”

“I walked out. I couldn’t take it, I just…I had to walk away.” Greg went around his desk and looked at the mess of papers. “Sherlock didn’t sit here, did he?”

“Nope. I wouldn’t let him.” John said quietly. And realized that despite talking to him, Greg hadn’t actually _seen_ him in the office, hadn’t known he was even there.

“John?” Confusion and exhaustion dimmed his eyes and he blinked in alarm. “Holy shit, how long have _you_ been here?”

“I’m not actually sure, but probably longer than I needed to be.” He sat down in the chair he’d taken before, “Sherlock’s been and left again, I guess that’s…normal?”

“Yeah, sort of. You…stayed?”

“Of course I stayed. Where the hell else am I supposed to go?” He fiddled with the lead in his hands, keeping his head down.

“I’ll leave you boys to your business,” Thomas said quietly, giving John’s shoulder a squeeze. “Finish up your bit, Greg, and go home. I’ll give Dimmock a go at your suspects, see if he can get them to talk.”

“What if they don’t?”

“Lock-up for the next forty-eight and give them some time to stew, think about it, before you go hard on them on Tuesday. I’ll see you on Monday.”

“Yes, sir.” Greg just nodded and they let Thomas take his leave. Once the door had closed, properly this time, John let out a shaky breath he honestly didn’t remember holding. He shoved unsteadily to his feet as Greg came back around the desk. There was no hesitation as Greg put both arms around John for the second time that afternoon and held him tight, held him close.

“Where…” He trailed off, voice crackling.

“Neck, right shoulder. I’ll say if you go where I don’t…”

“That’s fine. It’s…that’s fine.” Greg sighed, his breath warm against John’s cheek as he laid one hand against the back of his neck, fingers sliding into his hair. It was far longer now than it had ever been in the past twenty-one years, even when John had been on leave. John whined, pressing his face against Greg’s shoulder. Greg froze, but it wasn’t memory that had him reacting that way.

“Don’t…stop. Please.” He whispered, clutching at handfuls of fabric and wishing, just for one selfish moment, that it was bare skin.

“Okay, are you sure?”

“Yes. Please don’t stop.” John rubbed his cheek against the material of Greg’s shirt, he’d already discarded the suit-coat. “Christ, I missed you, Greg. So much.”

“I know. Because…I missed you, too.”

“So…now what?”

“Whatever you want from me. At your speed. Whenever you say.”

“Oh, god, don’t…” He let out a breathless chuckle, “I’d have you over your desk if I thought I could get away with it, Greg!” The sound Greg made was…he wasn’t sure what it was supposed to be.

“Don’t say that!” He gasped, “Not after all this time, what you just went through!”

“Greg Lestrade, let me make one thing very clear to you.” John leaned his head back and used both hands to hold Greg still so they could make eye contact. “Of all the awful things I went through in Afghanistan, sexual assault was never one of them, at all. Everything else you can imagine was fair game, but for some reason, Moran was never interested in humiliating me that way.”

“You turned him down, but instead of taking it from you by force, he sought to break your body and your spirit in other ways.”

“Yes.”

“I want him dead. I rarely wish ill upon someone, but I want that man dead.” Greg’s voice was harsh, his eyes cold. John shook his head.

“Don’t worry about him, Greg. Moran won’t escape for long, there’s quite a few people very interested in finding him.”

“But he’s still out there, and you’re not safe.”

“Don’t _worry_ about me.” John smiled, he couldn’t help it. Greg’s defensive streak was endearing.

“You can’t stop me from worrying.”

“I can distract you, though.” He rubbed his fingertips along Greg’s jaw, noticing the prickly scruff of a two-day beard.

“That’s not fair,” Greg muttered, no heat in those words. John just smiled a bit and raised an eyebrow.

“If I remember correctly, you have a soft-spot right about…” He found the patch of skin in question and chuckled as Greg practically swooned. “Ah, there it is.” He leaned up on tiptoe and let Greg do the rest. It was just as good as he remembered, better because it was a new experience. The warm, chapped press of lips, the scrape of stubble, the hint of nicotine and coffee when their tongues touched.

“Oh, you’re a bad, bad man, John Watson.” The detective’s voice was soft, a little rough, his expression completely relaxed when John pulled back a bit.

“Mm, don’t think you quite mind.” He just smiled. “Told you, it’s fine.”

“Jesus.”

“Take it easy, don’t…don’t get stuck.” He stroked his fingers through the silvered strands, remembering when Greg’s hair had been brown. He liked the silver, though, it was…distinguished. Greg sighed and took another kiss. There was something desperate in it, something…raw.

“I missed you. I thought I would never see you again.”

“You were with me, you know.” John rubbed the line of Greg’s shoulder-blade, wishing again that it was bare flesh under his fingers. Not tonight, but…soon.

“John…I…can’t do this.” Greg breathed against his neck, his voice thick and crackling. “I can’t let you walk away again. Last time I did that, I didn’t see you again for twenty-one years and nearly lost you. I can’t…”

“I can’t take you home tonight, but I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“W-why not?”

“Because I need one night of peace.” He so desperately wanted to stay with Greg, to give him whatever he could ask for, but John knew that was a bad idea.

“Sherlock out of the house, then?”

“Morgue, he said. Might not be home.”

“Lucky you.” Greg chuckled thickly and stroked his fingers through John’s hair. “Tomorrow?”

“Absolutely. I…have plans in the morning, but I’m available anytime after two.” It wasn’t just that he had plans, he was attending the Remembrance Sunday ceremonies the next morning. Max pushed against his legs, and John sighed, looking down at his clever companion. “I know, boy.”

“Have you considered getting him certified as a service dog?”

“I have, I’ll look into that once I’m properly settled in London.” John rubbed the top of Max’s head. “He already goes everywhere I go, so…”

“Certification is the natural next step for you.” Greg smiled. “He’s a good dog.”

“He likes you alright.”

“Clearly. Are you in a hurry to get out of here?”

“I can wait while you finish up your bit.”

“Alright.” Greg went back to his desk, gesturing for John to sit if he wanted. “Take a seat. Do you want coffee or anything?”

“Sure, if you’ve got it.”

“Just a minute.” Greg patted him on the shoulder and went to the door for a minute, opening it long enough to stick his head out. “Hey, Donovan?”

“Yeah, Boss?”

“Coffee, please? Two.”

“Sure thing!” He could just see the smile on Donovan’s face. Coming back, Greg sat down at his desk and attempted to bring order to some of the chaos. The door opened about three minutes later and Donovan let herself in.

“Here you go, Boss.”

“Thank you, Donovan.” Greg looked up at Donovan and smiled as she slid one cup across to him. The other one she held out to John, who accepted it.

“Thank you, Sergeant.”

“You’re welcome, Captain.” Donovan gave him a bright smile that in any other circumstances might have been flirty, but she was just being genuinely nice to him. “Do you need anything else, Boss?”

“Nope. Not unless you can work magic and get those morons sitting in lock-up to start telling the fucking truth.” Greg grimaced around a sip of coffee.

“Yeah, you and me both, sir.” Donovan rolled her eyes. “See you on Monday, then?”

“Word got around, did it?”

“Might’ve asked the Commissioner.”

“Sneaky thing. Thank you, Sally.” Greg looked at the mess on his desk, “I’ll see what I can do about this and head home, then. See you on Monday.”

“Alright.” It was clear Donovan didn’t quite believe him, but she knew what was what. Max pushed his head into her hand as she tried to walk away without giving him a fuss first.

“Oh, stop it, you. I didn’t forget about you, Max, I promise. I’ve got work to do, I can’t spend all day fussing on you.” Donovan scolded, getting a disgruntled look and a head-toss for making excuses. “Don’t look at me like that, I don’t make the rules.”

“Oh, he won you over good and proper, didn’t he?” John chuckled as Donovan gave Max the required fussing before she really did have to go back to work.

“He didn’t have to try very hard. But he’s a handsome boy, I don’t mind.” Donovan just smiled, _“You_ don’t mind, do you, Captain?”

“Not at all.” He shook his head. Something told him that having Sally Donovan in his corner might not be a bad idea, and if that meant he let her fuss on Max, that was alright with him. It was a compromise he was willing to make.

“So. I like Donovan.” John mused once they were alone. Greg looked up at him and raised an eyebrow.

“Son, she’s been dying to meet you since 2001. Trust me, it’s mutual.”

“I gathered, she was rather...excited to meet me at that scene.”

“I bet she was, once she realized that you were...well, _you_.” Greg smiled, “Get used to it because she’s not going to stop smiling like she knows something, or trying to get us time alone.”

“She the sort to run off the naysayers?”

“Absolutely. Especially after the divorce.”

“Divorce?” John frowned, “When did you get married?”

“Back in 1998. There are very few things I regret, getting married to Patricia Hendoffer is definitely one of them.”

“I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”

“I’m not. It wasn’t a happy marriage at all, I’m just glad we never had kids.”

“You didn’t?” John was a little surprised to hear that, Greg seemed like a very caring person who would make a fantastic father.

“It was never...important. At least, that’s what I thought. She never said it was important, but then...”

“What happened?”

“During the court-process, she starts coming after me for child support.”

“It wasn’t yours, though, was it?” John couldn’t imagine what a nightmare that would be. It wouldn’t change anything about the way he still felt about Greg, but it would make things...difficult.

“Thank Christ for paternity tests, I was more than happy to give a DNA sample. I knew it was unlikely the kid was mine, but there was that small per cent that still said “Well, what if?”.”

“Jesus.”

“Kid wasn’t mine, and I threatened to counter-sue. I could have gotten her on lying in court, I did, actually, but that was...bittersweet. For all she put me through, it felt...”

“Hollow?”

“Yeah.”

“Confirmed Bachelor Greg Lestrade?”

“Something like that. It’s kind of disturbing how many people try to proposition me, both while I was still married and after.” Greg’s expression soured, “But I don’t run like that.”

“You’re loyal to one partner, and one partner only.”

“It’s how I was raised. Dad _always_ told me to be careful who I gave my heart to, and I got burned because I gave it to a pretty face hiding a rotten soul.”

“I’m sorry, Greg.”

“I’m not. And I’m _not_ interested in women. I was a fence-sitter before the divorce, before I ever got married, but I’ve always been...”

“Been more fond of the blokes?”

“Yeah, that’s one word for it. And after the divorce, I just...women hold no romantic interest. I won’t date.”

“Hmm. I imagine between your personal history and your sergeant, any woman wanting a shot at Greg Lestrade would have a hard battle to fight.” John took a sip of coffee. It wasn’t gourmet, but he’d certainly had worse.

 

After about another hour, Greg finished what he was doing and shut down things for the weekend.

“Well, I’m done here.” He got up, collecting his gear, “Let me see you out? Can I take you home?”

“Sure.” John smiled and made sure he had his things before he followed Greg out of the office. They headed for the car-park together and John didn’t miss the subtle touches, the brush of fingers as they walked the hallways, a “guiding hand” on the small of his back as Greg held a door for him, walking far closer together than casual acquaintances would. John didn’t mind, though. He was so starved for friendly, affirmative contact that he _wanted_ to be touched. He knew Greg would never hurt him, and he craved familiar company.

When they got to Greg’s car, he handed Max’s lead to Greg and let him situate Max in the back seat. Greg then held the passenger-side door for John.

“Captain.”

“Thank you.” John slid into the car, wincing a bit as his knee objected to the change of position.

“Same injury?” Greg asked softly as he got in on the other side once John was situated. “Or is this a new one?”

“No, this is just...um, I guess it’s a side effect? I’m fairly certain it’s entirely sympathetic, might even be psychosomatic.” John tapped his leg with the cane, “I’ve been cleared by no fewer than six doctors, at least three of them before I reached anywhere that English was spoken as a primary language. Two docs from Medical saw me as soon as I got state-side, they said I only need a cane now, but that was mostly as a precaution.”

“But you do need it.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“That’s okay. It’s not fair to expect you to come home whole after something like that.” Greg shook his head. “I guess I should be grateful they bothered to feed you.”

“Sometimes they didn’t.”

“Bastards.”

“That’s what I called them,” John smirked.

“That reminds me. Are you hungry?”

“Starved.” John raised an eyebrow. “What did you have in mind?”

“Because I know this little Italian joint in Soho that has some decent food.”

“I’m game for Italian. I can’t promise we won’t have to bail out if I panic, but I should be fine.” John said carefully.

“No worries. If it gets bad, just tell me.” Greg reached across the centre console and took his hand. “This kind of situation requires a code-word.”

“Hmm. Fidget?”

“Sure. Simple, easy to remember, low-key.” Greg nodded and gave his hand a squeeze. “Just say the word. Will Max signal if he detects a panic attack?”

“If he’s with me? Yes. He’ll bark only once, and try to get on top of me if he can.”

“Good to know. I don’t think the owner of the restaurant we’re going to is really going to mind at all if we bring Max, he’s...pretty easy-going.”

“What’s his name?”

“Angelo. He’s a friend of Sherlock’s, actually. Nice bloke, very friendly. Just to warn you, he will try to hug you.”

“Thanks for the warning?” John chuckled. “I’ll keep that in mind. Although, I think I may have already met him.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me one bit if Sherlock’s already dragged you to Angelo’s. I can only imagine what the occasion was.”

“Some private case he was working on. Solved it in less than an hour, but we got a free meal out of it, so I didn’t complain too much.”

“Sounds like Sherlock.” Greg smirked, “Well, then I guess you already know how Angelo is.”

“Yes, I do,” John said, remembering the very friendly Italian proprietor. It would be nice to visit Angelo’s again, this time he would actually be able to sit and enjoy his meal.

Ten minutes later, Greg parked just down the street from Angelo’s Italian and let Max out before giving John a hand. With his cane in one hand and Max’s lead in the other, John headed for the restaurant and let Greg hold the door for him. It was suitably busy, and John anticipated at least a short wait, but part of him knew better than to think Angelo wouldn’t recognize either him or Greg and let them wait at all. As they stood in the warm entryway, John looked for any sign of the kind proprietor.

“Captain!” A familiar voice bellowed from elsewhere in the restaurant. “Captain Watson! Welcome!”

“Incoming,” Greg said in a low tone.

“Shh.” John hushed him and braced himself for the enthusiastic hug he received from Sherlock’s friend.

“Hello, Captain! So good to see you again! Welcome!” Angelo nearly lifted John off his feet. “You brought company, I see! Hello, Inspector!”

“Angelo.” Greg just smiled. “Got any empty tables tonight?”

“Absolutely! For my friends, I always have an open table! Come, come, you both look famished!” Angelo hustled them to a small, somewhat isolated table for two on one side of the dining room. “Sit down, relax! I will take of you!”

“Thank you, Angelo,” John said mildly as Angelo carefully bundled him into the booth seat on one side of the table.

“Sit! I will be right back!” He just said cheerfully as he bustled off again, singing to himself in Italian.

“Max, lay down.” John patted his leg and Max obeyed. “Good  boy.” Greg just smiled behind folded hands.

“What?”

“Nothing. Just...observing.” He said calmly, his smile soft now. “Grateful.”

“For what?”

“You came home.”

“Oh.” John wasn’t sure what to say to that, so he didn’t say anything.

Angelo returned in short order with a tray. There was a basket of bread, a bottle of wine, and two glasses. He took their orders and promised to be back shortly. The quiet that fell between them was not uncomfortable, but it was weighted.

There was a lot of time lost between them, opportunities missed. Life experiences that had taken them in very different directions. To be fair, though, neither of them had ever insisted that the other maintain contact after that one night. Even back then, John suspected that he and Greg had both known that where they were going in life would not be conducive to maintaining contact with someone they’d met at a bar. And in fairness to John, he had never wanted to put anyone through the uncertainty of waiting for the next letter or phone-call, wondering if the one you’d received before _was_ the last of its kind. He had never wanted to put Greg through the agony of grieving for him, which...well, that had happened regardless.

“I never believed it, you know?” Greg murmured after Angelo had brought their meals and gone again after making sure they didn’t need anything else.

“Believed what?”

“That you were dead.” He looked up a bit to make eye contact.

“No body?”

“No body.” Greg took a sip of wine, “It’s like I told Sherlock once, until they had a body and positively identified it as _yours_ , I wasn’t going to believe anyone who told me you were dead.”

“Did they?”

“A few people told me to think about moving on, you must be dead by now. But it was never...anyone who knew our history, never anyone who _knew_ us.”

“Like?”

“My dad, _yours_ , Sally.”

“When did you meet my dad, then?” John was curious to know about that. Greg’s name had come up almost right away, and it wasn’t “Constable Lestrade” or “Detective Inspector Lestrade”, it was always “Greg”.

“Right after I got the box they recovered from Samira.” Greg looked at him across the table, “Even then, I refused to believe you were dead. I didn’t know, but I wasn’t going to jump to a conclusion that could have been false.”

“Well, I wasn’t. It was close, but I wasn’t.” John sighed, “I’m so sorry, Greg, I never, ever wanted to make you suffer like that, but I didn’t want you to find out the hard way and draw the wrong conclusions.”

“I got through it by…this is awful of me, I never should have done this, but the…”

“What?” He reached across the table and touched Greg’s hand. “How did you cope?”

“I treated it like I was working a case. I catalogued your belongings, I even had them processed like they were legitimate evidence articles, I made an audio-report of the whole thing. I kept your journal and Molly Hooper gave me your tags so I could keep those, too. And when I met your father, he informed me that the last location they had on you was just outside of Muqur, where they lost track of you for a while. That was at the very beginning, two weeks after you must have escaped.”

“How do you know it was two weeks?”

“Because your last entry was dated “Day 64”, and I worked out going by your _first_ entry on 8 May that you had staged an escape on 12 July, sixty-five days after you were initially captured.” Greg took a sip of wine, “And it was clear you had succeeded in at least escaping the compound, they found twelve men dead and the truck you must have stolen abandoned a mile outside of Muqur. Why did you abandon the truck?”

“Got a flat tire.” He shrugged, it was a pretty unimpressive end to his first escape.

“And you weren’t about to fix it?”

“Hell, I was!”

“Well, for what it’s worth, when they went into Muqur after finding the truck and asked if anyone had seen you, the locals weren’t exactly forthcoming.”

“I asked them not to.” John took a bite of his pasta carbonara. “I asked them to tell anyone and everyone who asked about me that they had never seen me. And there was no trace of me besides the truck, I could have skipped the village and taken to the hills right out of the gate for all anyone looking for me would have known.”

“And somehow, in the following three months, you managed to get from Northwestern Afghanistan clear around the Persian Gulf to Doha, Qatar, of all places? How the hell did you manage _that_?”

“It was a very long, very bizarre journey.” John looked into his wine-glass for a moment, “Not something I would ever suggest for leisure.”

“You must have caused quite a stir at Al Udeid when you showed up there after being on the MIA lists for so long they almost moved you to KIA instead.”

“That’s a word for it.” He said as Max put his head on John’s knee. He reached down and gave Max a pet. Looking across the table, he smiled at Greg. This was a pretty decent way to end a rather strange day, he had good company and good food and the prospect of a quiet night’s sleep if Sherlock was truly out of the house tonight.

* * *

* * *

 


	7. Bittersweet: Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A crime-scene, a dead body, a reunion. All in a days' work, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John's home. That is all.  
> **  
> What it says on the tin: Part 2

* * *

* * *

They managed to get through dinner without John needing to safe-word, and Greg took him home to Baker Street.

“Thanks for the ride, Greg.” He leaned against the car as they said their goodbyes, “See you tomorrow?”

“Yeah. I’ll be in touch after 1.30, if you’re up to doing…well, anything.”

“That’s  fine.” John smiled and ducked in a bit, “One for a good night’s sleep?”

“Yes!” Greg’s eyes brightened, the unspoken “you really have to ask?” was very heavily implied. Kissing Greg was…nice, and John hoped there would be more opportunities in the future.

“You’re very good at that, did you know that?”

“I’ve been told.” He ran his fingers through Greg’s hair one last time before he ducked out. “Safe drive home, let me know when you get there?”

“Absolutely, I will.” Greg just smiled at him, “Sleep well, John. A peaceful night on Baker Street is kind of…”

“Rare?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll take what I can get. See you tomorrow, Greg.”

“Good night, John.” Greg put the car into gear as he got the door open and John watched from the stoop as the silver BMW pulled away and merged into traffic.

“Is that you, John?” Mrs Hudson called from the open door of 221A as he locked up the house for the night.

“Sorry about the hour, Mrs Hudson.” He pocketed his keys and headed upstairs with Max. “Has Sherlock been through?”

“No, I haven’t heard from him.” The kind woman who kept the house watched him go upstairs. “Where is he?”

“The morgue, I think. Said not to wait up for him, so I locked up the house.”

“Well, if he forgot his keys, he’ll just pick the lock, I suppose. Are you off to bed then?”

“Yeah, I’ll probably take a shower first. Maybe a bath, the weather’s been a little rough on me.”

“Take care of yourself first, John. Good night, dear.” Mrs Hudson just smiled and went back into her flat.

“Good night, Mrs Hudson,” John called after her. Going upstairs to his bedroom, John made sure everything was ready for tomorrow, taking down a No. 1 dress-uniform. He was fairly certain it would still fit, if not a bit loosely, but it had been properly laundered and starched before being delivered to Baker Street. After ensuring his uniform was in order, John took a hot shower.

He wasn’t looking forward to tomorrow’s ceremonies, but he would go. Someone had to, and he had made himself a promise in Afghanistan. Like he’d made a promise to himself about Greg, he’d promised that he would remember the soldiers who had died in that ambush, died protecting _him_. He still remembered Denny Mackenzie shoving him to the ground to protect him, giving Max an order.

“Stay on him, Max! Stay with him, don’t you leave his side!” Denny had shouted before disappearing. Max had stayed on John until the bitter end, when they had come after him, and he had given Max the order to run.

“Run, Max! Go!” He’d yelled as he tried to fight off the insurgents. Max had disappeared, and John hadn’t seen the ordnance detection dog again for two and a half months. Max had followed him after the coast was clear, tracked him to the compound outside of Samira, and made several attempts to reach John, to carry out Mackenzie’s last orders, but was unable to do so until John himself made his escape from captivity. Now they were both home and tomorrow would join hundreds in remembering their fallen comrades.

John came to himself sitting on the floor of the shower, chest heaving. A wet head shoved against his shoulder and he reached for Max, who was soaking wet. He didn’t remember losing his footing, but he must have. The water had been turned off, and he realized that Max had come after him and turned it off, and now was trying to get him out of his head again.

“Christ. Sorry, boy, so sorry.” He muttered pressing his forehead to Max’s, shaking from a combination of adrenaline and chills. Max whined and licked his face before moving away, shaking off the water on his fur. He came back in no time with a dry, warm towel and John got out of the shower before he tried to stand up. Rubbing his face dry first, John wiped down before he dried his hair. Moving back to the bedroom, John got dressed in pyjamas and used his towel to dry Max off properly. John tossed the towel into the hamper for the laundry and went back to the bathroom to get a dry towel. Rubbing Max completely dry took a bit of patience and he added the second towel to the laundry hamper once they were done.

“Come on, Max. I need a cuppa.” John said roughly, heading downstairs. It was slow going, with his cane in one hand and one hand on the handrail, John made his way downstairs to the kitchen. It didn’t take long to get the kettle on, and John sat at the table to wait for it to go off. While he waited, he heard footsteps on the stairs. There was a soft tap at the kitchen door and he looked up.

“John, dear? Everything okay?”

“Sorry, Mrs Hudson.” He sighed as the door creaked open. “I didn’t mean to keep you awake.” He was up on the second floor of the house, but his landlady always seemed to know when he wasn’t in a good mind-space. Just in the short time he had been living at Baker Street, he had seen more of Mrs Hudson than he had of Sherlock almost. She studied him as he sat at the table, read his body language, and made a soft sound of sympathy.

“Oh, you poor dear. I’ll be right back, I have just the thing.”

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson.” John put his head down on his arms as she passed behind him, patting him on the shoulder before she disappeared back downstairs for a minute. He had a pretty good idea what her special “thing” was, but he didn’t mind. By the time the kettle clicked off, she was back. She set two items on the table and told him to pick one. He made his selection and slid it across the table.

“What was it this time, dear?” Mrs Hudson asked as she fixed up tea for both of them, adding two spoons of honey to John’s cup before adding the tea-bag. “Afghanistan again?” John picked at a gouge in the table-top as he thought about his recent episode.

“Yeah. This time it was…I was remembering when I was captured. What happened that day.”

“When you lost your boys?”

“When I lost the lads, when I…when I told Max to run for his own sake.” John reached under the table to rub Max’s head. “And he did, but the silly thing came after me somehow and spent months trying to reach me.”

“He’s such a good dog, isn’t he?” Mrs Hudson smiled as she put the cups on a tray, “Why don’t you get up and we’ll go sit where it’s a bit more comfortable?”

“Thank you so much, Mrs Hudson.” John sighed and got carefully to his feet, making his way out to the sitting room. While Mrs Hudson put the tray on the coffee table, John got a fire going to warm the place up a bit and put some music on to fill the silence. When Mrs Hudson gave him his cup and patted the couch, he sat down.

“So. Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not particularly.”

“ _Will_ you talk about it?” She gave him a curious look as he sipped at his tea. It tasted the way it always did and John smiled a little. Every time he had trouble sleeping, Mrs Hudson would come and sit with him, either up here in B or she would coax him down to A, and they would drink her “special tea”. Sometimes John would talk about what kept him awake at night, what haunted him during daylight hours, sometimes they just sat in silence.

“I don’t want to talk about it, but talking…at least to you, it seems to help.” John sighed and cradled the warm cup in both hands. “What does it say that I refuse to talk to a licensed psychologist who’s trained to handle cases like mine, but I have absolutely no problem at all talking to my landlady? I know you have better things to be doing than listen to me pour my heart out over a cup of spiked tea.”

“Do I, though? I may not have a fancy education or a diploma to hang on my wall, John Watson, but I’ve got instincts. I’ve got empathy. And all the time in the world.” Her smile was kind and mischevious as she squeezed his hand. “You need to work things over and if I can help, I’ll help. If that’s listening to you talk until you’re blue in the face, I’ll do it. If that’s sitting while you just brood, giving you company so you’re not alone, I’ll do that. And if it’s me knocking sense into your head when you start feeling sorry for yourself and questioning if there are people who need you and care about you, you can be bloody well certain I will be more than happy to do that, too!”

“If I didn’t think you were serious, Mrs Hudson.” John chuckled, unable to help himself.

“So, start talking, young man.”

“Yes, ma’am.” John set his cup down and tried to think about where to start this time.

“Try starting at the beginning. I find that usually works.” Mrs Hudson said wisely, as if she could read his thoughts.

“The beginning. Christ, which one? When I went to the Army? When I got captured?”

“I don’t know if you’ve told me what convinced you to go to the Army. I’d love to hear it.” Her smile brightened. “It’s not what you _need_ to talk about, but I think you should.”

“Well, alright.” He reached for his cup again and noticed, a little sadly, that it was nearly empty. That happened sometimes. “Start at the beginning?”

“Start at the beginning. Sherlock’s not home, won’t be for hours I imagine, after you.” Mrs Husdon made a gesture with one hand and John smiled. Well, that was a story he didn’t actually mind telling.

He had been sixteen when he decided to go into the Army, but it was something he’d had his sights set on since he’d been a lad of five or six. Military service had always been an integral part of his life, from his great-grandfather’s service in World War I, to his grandfather’s service in World War II and The Troubles, to his father’s service in the Persian Gulf War, the Balkan conflicts, The Troubles, and the recent conflicts in the Middle East. It went back even further than that to a Watson who had served during the Napoleonic conflicts and the American Revolution. So he had gone into the military, one of a rather long line of Watson men who had served Crown and Country. He had been sixteen when he started his training, twenty-one when he graduated from medical-school after deciding to go that route and the military fronted the necessary resources for further training, and had gone to his first service deployment in 1992.

“Where did they send you first?”

“Kenya. I was there for a year before they sent me to Northern Ireland for a while.”

“Oh, you _have_ seen the world, haven’t you?”

“Mhm.”

“And all this time, you never had a sweetheart? No one to write home to?”

“No, not…exactly.” He shrugged, “More like I didn’t feel like putting effort into a long-distance relationship like that. And, er, I wasn’t…”

“Hmm?”

“Maybe not quite as interested in girls as they are in me.” He made a face and set his empty cup down.

“Well, I could have told you _that_.” Mrs Hudson just smiled and collected their cups. “More of the same?”

“Mm. I think one cuppa will do me, but more tea would be lovely.”

“Of course, dear. But just this once, not your housekeeper, y’know?” She patted him on the leg and got up, bustling off to the kitchen. While she was gone, John realized he’d left his phone upstairs. He sighed and knew if he went back up, he’d stay there.

“Max?” He rubbed his acquired pet’s muzzle. “Phone.” Max’s ears perked up and he got up, heading for the stairs at a trot. Max returned in no time with John’s phone, Mrs Hudson returned with fresh tea, plain for John this time, and she handed him the cups before she sat down again. John dutifully handed over Mrs Hudson’s cup and took a sip of his own. Just plain tea.

“So? You were saying that you didn’t have a sweetheart while you were away, but I’m not quite sure that’s entirely true.”

“Mm, no. Actually.” John thought of Greg, “Would you believe that I had a one-night stand the night before I left for Kenya with this bloke in a Met uniform, and never saw him again?”

“Oh, that’s a shame.” Mrs Hudson clucked her tongue, “Was he handsome?”

“Gorgeous, Mrs Hudson.” He wondered how he’d gone from fighting a relapse episode to drinking tea with his landlady and talking about his one night twenty-one years ago with Greg Lestrade. Well, that was fine.

“I don’t suppose you have a picture of this handsome bloke, do you?” Now she was just being sly. John had a digital copy of that very first picture, recent, and decided he might as well show Mrs Hudson.

“I…actually, I do, Mrs Hudson. It’s twenty-one years old and the boys in the picture are quite a bit different now.”

“Oh, of _course_! Show me!” She held out her hand for John’s phone and he dutifully pulled up that picture and handed it to her.

“That’s me on the left, the one in fatigues.” He rubbed Max’s head as he put a paw on John’s knee.

“And the lad with an arm around your neck?”

“That’s…Greg.” There were hundreds, thousands of people named Greg, it wasn’t that unique of a name.

“And what’s he do?”

“Well, he was a Police Constable with The Met when we met in ’92.” John took a sip of tea and braced himself. “But I didn’t see him again or hear from him for twenty-one years, Mrs Hudson. I fully expected to return to London and find out he’d moved on with his life.”

“Had he?”

“Yes? And…no. Absolutely not.”

“Have you found him again, then?”

“Yes, Mrs Hudson.” John smiled and took his phone back, “I saw him tonight.”

“You were out for quite some time, where did you find him?”

“You remember that case Sherlock was called on? That…6?”

“Yes, of course, I remember. He was all up in arms about it.”

“Mm. I…met Greg while we were helping The Met.”

“Oh, so he’s still with The Met?”

“Very much so. He’s…come quite a long way from a lowly PC breaking up bar-fights on a Friday night. I knew he would. I kind of tried to keep track of him through the papers while I was gone.”

“What’s he do now, then?”

“He’s a Detective Inspector with the Homicide and Major Crimes Division.”

“Oh, is he?”

“Mhm.”

“What’d you say his name was?”

“His name is Greg,  Mrs Hudson,” John said quietly. There was a stack of newspapers on the coffee table, one of them had a spread on a recent case Sherlock had helped The Met solve, they had Greg’s picture taken from a press conference. The paper was from last month, so it wasn’t the most recent picture, but it was still a rather good picture of Greg. He pulled the paper free from the stack and slid it across to Mrs Hudson. “That’s…er, that’s him, Mrs H.”

“Oh?” Mrs Hudson looked from the picture on John’s phone of Greg Lestrade at the age of twenty-five to the newspaper spread that showed him now, at the age of forty-six. “Oh! Oh my goodness, that’s…why, that’s Greg Lestrade! Sherlock’s friend at The Met!”

“It’s the very same person, Mrs Hudson.” John rubbed his hands together. “It’s been twenty-one years since that night.”

“Oh, John, I’m so happy for you!” Mrs Hudson gave him his phone back and hugged him, “Why on earth didn’t you stay with him tonight?”

“I don’t get much time to myself anymore and I figured I could do with a night of peace and quiet before tomorrow.”

“Oh, that’s right. Tomorrow is Remembrance Sunday, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Is your uniform all ready?”

“Yes, Mrs Hudson.” He smiled and took his landlady’s hand, “I hung it up already.”

“You’ve been through so much, John, you deserve to be happy now.” Mrs Hudson squeezed his hand, “I’ve said the same thing to Greg, especially lately. What with that harpy of a wife he finally got a divorce from. Did he tell you about that?”

“Yes, he told me.” John shook his head. “He deserves better.”

“So do you, John.” Mrs Hudson looked at him sternly, “You both deserve to be happy, and if that’s together, so be it. You let me know if Sherlock tries to get in your way, I’ll put him to rights.”

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson.” John picked up his cup and sipped at the cool tea. After finishing his second cup of tea, he helped Mrs Hudson with the wash-up and said good night.

“Good night, Mrs Hudson.”

“Good night, dear.” She waved as she went downstairs. “Sleep well, John.”

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson.” He just waited until she was at the landing before he closed the door and went upstairs. “Come on, Max. Long day tomorrow.” He brushed his teeth and went about his nightly ablutions before heading for the bedroom. He would sleep well, he suspected. Max curled up on the bed alongside John and kept him company, kept him warm, and he drifted off thinking about Greg.

* * *

* * *

 


	8. Louder Actions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Remembrance Sunday. John Watson observes the solemnities and reflects. He made a promise, and he's going to make sure he keeps that promise. But he isn't alone on this day of remembrance, and that makes all the difference in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of low-key Johnstrade here. More is coming.

* * *

* * *

The next morning, John was up early as he prepared for the Remembrance ceremonies. Getting dressed in his dress-uniform was something he hadn’t done in what felt like an eternity, but it felt…familiar. There was something about it that was almost comforting. Once he was ready, or as ready as he would ever be, he made his way downstairs to find Mrs Hudson waiting with tea and biscuits.

“Oh, you look so _handsome_!”

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson.” He just smiled and took the cup she offered him. “I’m actually surprised it fits me at all.”

“Oh, you look fine!” She just waved off his concerns and took a sip of tea. “Greg Lestrade is the luckiest man in London.”

“I don’t know if he’s lucky. I might be, but I don’t know if he is.” John shrugged and sipped his tea. After two cups of tea and a few biscuits, John ducked into the loo to take care of things before heading downstairs.

“Did Sherlock ever come home?”

“If he did, I haven’t seen him.” Mrs Hudson called from the kitchen as she did the wash-up. John rolled his eyes as he washed his hands. A quick look at his reflection showed tired eyes, a bit blood-shot, a face lined by time and experience alike. Well, at least he’d shaved, so he didn’t look quite as…scruffy. He had a bit of stubble, but it was acceptable. Drying his hands, he went back out and collected his coat, wallet, and phone. John made sure Max was on his lead and headed out.

“Oh, John, I have something for you.” Mrs Hudson stopped him at the door. “Something for the spirit of the occasion.” John turned, well aware of his father waiting by the car outside.

“What’s that, Mrs Hudson?”

“My ladies’ group made these earlier in the week, and I made one for you. I thought you might have one already, but…I wanted to give you one just in case.” She showed him a handmade Poppy Pin, fashioned out of silk petals and a black centre accent. It was a black button, and he realized what had been done. The button wasn’t purely decorative, it had been used to anchor the petals with proper stitching, and the whole assembly had then been mounted to the brooch fitting with further stitch-work and doubled with an adhesive for longevity and durability. The adhesive had been added to the button-stitching as well. It was well-made and rather lovely.

“Oh, Mrs Hudson, it’s lovely.” He took the pin carefully, “It’s quite lovely.”

“May I?” She took it when he offered it back to her and held it up in question.

“Of course.” John couldn’t refuse her. Effort had been put into the pin, love and respect. Mrs Hudson carefully attached the pin to John’s tunic, making sure it was orientated properly, and patted his medals, probably naming them to herself.

“Such sacrifice. I’m so glad you came home to us, John.”

“Me, too,  Mrs Hudson.” John sighed. “I’m doing this for my lads. The ones who didn’t get to come home as I did.”

“Good. Someone has to.” She patted him on the cheek and held the door for him. Mrs Hudson pressed something into his hand as he stepped out. “Take this with you? Give it to someone you think deserves it.”

“Of course I will, Mrs Hudson.” He smiled and kissed his landlady on the cheek as he stood on the stoop. “Be back later, Mrs Hudson.”

“Take care, John.” She let him go and waved to his father. “Good morning, General Watson.”

“Good morning, Mrs Hudson.” Samuel Watson just smiled at Mrs Hudson as he held the door for John to put Max in the back seat. “I don’t suppose you’ll be attending the ceremonies?”

“Oh, no, I can’t stand to be on my feet for so long in this weather. I’ll watch it on the telly. You boys go for me?”

“Of course, Mrs Hudson.”

“Good luck, you two.” She watched as they got into the car and stood on the stoop as they pulled away, probably watched until they were out of sight.

“Are you sure you can do this, John?” Samuel asked, his voice soft. “You don’t _have_ to do this.”

“No, I want to. I promised.” He fiddled with the poppy Mrs Hudson had given him, the second one she’d told him to give someone else. “I owe it to my lads.”

“You’re a good man, John Watson. Loyal.”

“I got that from you, y’know.” He sighed and leaned his head back against the headrest.

“I’m surprised you slept alone last night”

“What?” He cracked an eye open, “What makes you say that?”

“I half-expected you to go home with Greg.”

“Oh, God. I would have, Dad, in a _heartbeat_ , but I knew that with today…”

“You needed a night to get your head on right.”

“Yeah. Something like that.” He remembered his episode in the shower. “I had an episode last night while I was taking a shower. It was…kind of intense.”

“Scary.”

“Yeah.”

“What was it this time?”

“The day it happened. How Mackenzie told Max to stay on me, stay with me to the bitter end, no matter what. How I…sent him away before they could kill him.”

“And then he came and found you anyway.”

“Yeah.” John shook his head, “I really should look into getting Max trained up as a service animal, he already helps me with almost everything and I take him everywhere.”

“I’ll see what I can do for that.” Samuel just reached over and squeezed his hand. “He’s good for you, he’s a good dog.”

“Yeah, he really is.” John looked over his shoulder at Max, who sat behind them. “He sure took a quick shine to Greg’s sergeant, let me tell you what.”

“Sally Donovan?”

“Mhm.” John remembered the dark-skinned sergeant, “I like her. She’s…feisty. Smart, but no-nonsense.”

“The kind of person Greg needs under him to keep things running smoothly.”

“Exactly the kind of person Greg needs under him to keep things running smoothly.” Samuel just turned his focus to the road, manoeuvring through the early traffic, fighting a bit of ceremony traffic at the same time.

 

Despite the traffic, they made it to their rendezvous point with time to spare. All John knew was that he was attending the ceremonies, but not how or where he would be watching them from, so when he and his father joined a small contingent of people including members of the Royal Family and the Holmes brothers (John could only begin to imagine what _they_ had to do with this), he was just a bit surprised. He didn’t miss how Sherlock and Mycroft both wore pins identical to his and knew they had gotten their pins from Mrs Hudson. Introductions were made, John shook hands with some of the most powerful people in the country, and was thanked, profusely, for his service and sacrifice.

“Don’t thank _me_ , thank the service members we’re remembering this morning. I got to come home, they...didn’t.” John had to say something, he couldn’t keep quiet. He hadn’t done anything spectacular by surviving and coming home, he thought. The people who deserved recognition were the soldiers who had died that day five and a half months ago, most of them his friends. He had missed their funerals because of his situation, but Remembrance Sunday seemed to be a pretty good day to make amends for that. John was given one of the Poppy Wreaths to lay at the base of the Cenotaph on Whitehall, it only had twelve poppies attached to it, a TRF ribbon was tied around the wreath itself adorned with a regimental badge. Royal Regiment of Fusiliers, Fifth Regiment. His unit, his boys. His friends. Twelve poppies for twelve soldiers who came home in boxes draped in flags.

They joined the Royal Family at The Cenotaph at the prescribed time and John stood next to his father. It was quiet, an expectant, sombre quiet, and they were joined by others. Representatives from the Royal Navy, and by extension the Royal Marines, the Royal Air Force, and other military organizations came first, followed by contingents from the Emergency Responders who served London: The Commissioner of The City of London Police, his Assistant Commissioner, representatives of The Greater London Ambulance Corps and other companies and the firehouses, and then, there were two from The Metropolitan Police Service. John had no trouble recognizing both of them and stiffened. Not out of fear, just...instinct. Formal affairs and solemnities were an unusual place to run into the Lestrades, but was it any more unusual than a crime-scene? Mycroft said something to Sherlock, who just nodded, and the brothers moved over enough to open up space next to John and Samuel. These spots were occupied by the Lestrades, and John found himself moving over just a bit to stand closer to Greg. John was just as surprised to see Greg as Greg was to see him, and just as grateful for one more familiar face in a crowd of strangers. Without wasting a moment, John retrieved the second pin Mrs Hudson had given him at Baker Street and turned to Greg, quietly affixing the pin to the right lapel of his uniform tunic. As with all service-branch representatives, Greg and Thomas wore dress-uniforms as appropriate and John had to admit that he looked bloody handsome. As he smoothed the fabric of the black tunic, admiring the fit, lingering over a few of the medals Greg had collected during his tenure with The Met, Greg caught his hand and did something very risky, pressing a kiss to John’s fingertips, making full eye contact as he did so. It was a quick press of contact, but it tripped John’s heart-rate. Sheer self-control and a death grip on his cane kept John on his feet. Later. They would explore this...later.

 

The ceremony got underway at the appointed hour and when it was time for the service-branch representatives to lay their wreaths after the Royal Family had lain theirs, John quietly laid his wreath down among the others that had been placed, taking a moment to kneel.

“I’m so sorry, lads.” He whispered, touching the wreath with one hand. Getting to his feet again, John retreated and set his jaw. Greg had taken Max for him while he laid his wreath, but when he reached for...he didn’t know what he was actually reaching for, John brushed his fingers against Greg’s. They were both wearing gloves as part of their formal wear, but the contact was still...John didn’t mind when Greg carefully linked their fingers together.

The rest of the ceremony played out according to the dictated schedule and as the Veterans’ Pass-By began, Greg discretely put one hand on John’s back while he saluted his fellow veterans. It was one of the hardest things, emotionally, that John had done in...ages. But it was the right thing to do, it had to be done.  And he wasn’t alone as he did it, he had Greg. For the first time in almost six months, he finally had Greg with him for something. Maybe in years, if he was completely honest with himself.

When the ceremony ended, John paid his respects to the proper personages, told Sherlock he didn’t plan on being home for a while, and shook hands with their fathers.

“Where are you going?” Sherlock asked, legitimately confused that John would go anywhere except back to Baker Street. John looked at Greg for a minute before he turned to look at Sherlock.

“Where do you _think_ I’m going? There’s only a few places in this city I would bother going right now.” He tightened his grip on his cane. “Text if you legitimately need me, but I won’t be available for anything except a phone-consultation.”

As he walked away from The Cenotaph, John did not miss the varied expressions on their faces. The fathers were highly amused, smug even, and the Holmes brothers were just kind of dumbfounded. John had more or less just told Sherlock that short of a bloody emergency, say the sky started falling, he wasn’t available. The tall genius had gotten along without someone keeping him company for this long, he could handle himself for a few more hours. They walked from The Cenotaph to where Greg had parked his car that morning, not speaking a word to each other, but the silence was not uncomfortable. When they got to the silver BMW, Greg put Max in the back seat and held the door for John with a charming, shy smile.

“Captain?”

“Thank you, Inspector.” John just smiled and squeezed Greg’s arm as he ducked into the car and got comfortable.

“Can I take you home, John?”

“Absolutely.” He exhaled slowly, feeling the tension gathered under his breastbone in a tight, hot knot.

“Mine, or...?”

“Yours, please. I spent last night at Baker Street by myself, I need to be with...” He trailed off, not wanting to sound so...needy if he admitted that he honestly wanted nothing more than a few uninterrupted hours with Greg. He didn’t care _what_ they did, he just wanted to spend time with Greg, try to make up for some the twenty-one-year deficit that stood between them like a chasm needing to be bridged.

“Alright. I don’t think Cassie will mind some extra company.” Greg reached across the console and took his hand for a moment before putting the car in gear and getting them underway. The drive from Westminster to wherever Greg lived was quiet, not uncomfortable, and they kept conversation neutral.

 

Thirty minutes after departing from Wellington Barracks, Greg found parking in an underground car-park.

“Where are we?” It wasn’t that he hadn’t been paying attention, John just wasn’t as familiar with London as some of the people in his circle.

“Fulham. I haven’t lived in Chelsea for a while now.”

“That’s fine. Bigger place?”

“Mm, sort of?” Greg’s expression was...endearing. Getting out of the car, John got himself situated and followed Greg out of the car-park.

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.” Greg smiled, “You don’t get sea-sick, do you?”

“Mm, no. No, I don’t. Why?”

“Good.”

“Why is that important?”

“You’ll see!”

“You keep saying that. Should I be concerned?”

“No.”

“Hmph.” John rolled his eyes as they navigated the crowds on the footpath. A couple of people stopped John to shake his hand and thank him for his service, he just accepted their platitudes with a calm he didn’t exactly feel. He’d lost friends in Afghanistan, but he doubted anyone was unaware of the significance of a veteran in full dress-uniform on Remembrance Sunday.

After a while, they stopped and Greg retrieved his keys from his pocket. John looked around to see where they were now and blinked.

“Are we on a Marina?”

“Mhm. This is Imperial Wharf. I’ve lived here for...a year, I think? Moved out on my own after the divorce got underway, never really looked back or regretted it.” Greg got the marina gate open and  John stepped through onto the gangway.

“So...which one is yours, then?” He looked at the boats lining the jetties and admired the variation. There were cruisers, day-trip boats run by commercial companies, cigarette speeders, and barges. He followed Greg to one of the barges a ways down the pier, she was a sturdy-looking thing, steel-built. But he didn’t have much time to study the barge, his attention, and Max’s, was distracted by a commotion aboard.

“This is mine.” Greg said proudly, “Her name is _Endymion.”_

“And, your rowdy friend?”

“That’s Cassie.” Greg turned to look at the dog standing on the deck barking at them. “Oh, stop it,  Cassie, they’re friends of mine. Be nice.”

“She’s a Rottie alright.” John chuckled and tightened his grip on Max’s lead. Max, having picked out one of his own kind, wanted to go say hello. “Easy, lad, don’t know if she’s really all that good with other dogs or not.”

“Oh, she’ll be fine with Max. Hang on.” Greg boarded the boat and got his dog back inside, holding one hand out to John once the coast was clear. “Come on.”

“Okay.” He gave Greg the lead first and then boarded the boat himself. The deck swayed a bit under his feet, but it wasn’t terrible. He got his feet under him properly and looked around. “Wow. This is...quite a view.”

“I’m moving her to another mooring, my lease came up, if you don’t mind a bit of a jaunt?”

“Not if I can get out of this uniform first, I’ll even help get you underway!” John smiled, wondering why the idea of a short trip along the Thames sounded like such a good idea.

“Captain Watson?” A voice interrupted them and John looked over his shoulder. The woman standing on the jetty looked familiar, he recognized her from the ceremonies that morning.

“Yes?”

“You’ll be needing this, sir. Mr Holmes took the liberty of preparing an overnight bag for you.”

“Oh.” He took the small suitcase from her, “Thank you, Anthea.”

“Enjoy the remainder of your weekend, Captain. Mr Holmes will be in touch if you need anything.”

“Mm. I’m sure he will be.” John narrowed his eyes and looked at Greg as Mycroft Holmes’s haughty assistant walked away again, buried in her Blackberry. “Okay, then.”

“Come on, let’s get out of these monkey-suits and into something a bit more comfortable.” Greg just smiled and took his hand. The _Endymion_ wasn’t very large, but she was rather spacious for her purposes. In the lounge and kitchen area, the dogs were making introductions, circling each other and sniffing each other.

“Be nice, kiddies.” Greg scolded the pair as they passed through. “We’re all adults here.” John snorted.

“Right. Adults.” He rolled his eyes, looking around the unusual place Greg called home. “Nice place you’ve got.”

“Thanks. This is the main area, lounge, kitchen, dining.”

“Cosy, but spacious.”

“Mhm. Study-area down here, and the master cabin.” Greg said as he led the way forward. “The guest cabin is at the stern.”

“Mm.  I’m not _interested_ in the guest cabin.”

“Didn’t think you would be.” Greg smiled and led him down a set of short stairs, through the study, and into the master cabin. “This is it.”

“I like it.” He had been in rooms both smaller and larger than the cabin, but he loved the way this room felt. Greg set down his overnight bag and went to find his own change of clothes, throwing John a wink as he sauntered off. John snickered and set his cane aside, but before he could even get started removing his uniform, Greg was back. He had a pair of denims and a rugby shirt over one arm.

“Oh no you don’t, that’s all mine.” Greg carefully smacked his hands away, “I spent four hours staring at you in uniform, imagining what it would be like to take it off of you. If you’d let me.”

“Help yourself.” John just smiled, “Can’t say I wasn’t thinking the same thing about _you_ , though. I thought I made a uniform look good.”

“Oh, you make it look sinful.” Greg got to work on the collar-buttons, carefully undoing each one. Piece by piece, their uniforms were set aside. More thorough exploration would happen later, they had a job to do for the moment, but John had no problem stripping to pants in front of Greg.

“John?”

“Hmm?”

“Christ, for all you...suffered through...” Greg reached out but did not touch, studying the scarring left from John’s time in captivity. “I thought it would be worse.”

“It was, for a long time.” He wasn’t terribly self-conscious, he really didn’t feel a need to hide his scars from someone like Greg. “I’m not quite the way I was the last time we met.”

“That wouldn’t be fair if I’d expected you to be.” Greg finally touched one of the scars on his shoulder, “I guess they don’t hurt anymore?”

“Not like they used to,” John said quietly as he got dressed. He pulled on the denims, then a vest, following that with a button-down and a jumper. It felt so...strange to wear anything but his uniforms, it would take some time to get used to. Greg got dressed quickly, ruffling his hair a bit. Socks, shoes, and coats were next, and they went back topside. The dogs were nowhere to be found, but John knew better than to think they’d taken off. Sure enough, they went up on deck and found the dogs laying on the deck together.

“Well, it looks like Max and Cassie made friends.” He chuckled, “Look at that.”

“Good.” Greg smiled. “Can you get the mooring lines for me? I’ll get the anchor after I see to the Pier Master.”

“Absolutely.” John hopped from the _Endymion_ onto the pier while Greg went to speak to the Pier Master of Imperial Wharf Marina. He loosed the mooring lines, keeping one secure for stability. Greg came back with another gentleman in tow and introduced John to the Pier Master.

“You gents have a good rest of your weekend, alright?” He scolded as he helped them finish disconnecting from the pier.

“We will, Mr Richmond. My best to your wife.” Greg just smiled. Once they were free of the pier, Greg started the engine and pulled up the anchor.

As they drifted into the current and set off heading north, John looked around.

“So, now where are we going?”

“I got a berth in St Katharine.”

“Oh, nice. Probably a shorter commute to work?”

“A bit.” Greg smiled and looked over at him, “Want to give her a try?”

“Me?” John raised an eyebrow.

“It’s simple. Come on.” Greg just held out one hand to him. Well, okay then. John shrugged and joined Greg at the wheel. He was used to driving ambulances and armoured vehicles on desert highways, steering a barge on the Thames was a rather different experience but he quickly got the hang of the basics.

They made their way from Imperial Wharf to St Katharine, a journey of seven and a half miles, splitting the job of navigating almost right in half, John did part of the journey and Greg did the rest. When they got to St Katharine Docks Marina, John made the call-in to the marina office and then stood on the bow with a mooring-line in hand while Greg steered them into their slot over in the East Basin. As soon as they were up alongside the jetty, John jumped from the _Endymion_ and made the first rope fast.

“Can you get her tied up for me, love, I’ve gotta stop by the marina office.” Greg hopped from the barge onto the dock, John held out one hand to help him over.

“Sure. Just don’t take an age, will you?”

“I got most of the nasty work out of the way earlier in the week, this is just the final bit where I give them money and they give me keys to the Marina and a permit for my car so I can park it here.”

“Go on, then. When you’re done, we should give the dogs a run.” John didn’t miss how Greg held on a little longer than strictly necessary. Or really care. Then he was gone and John set about securing the barge at their new mooring. “Their”? Jesus, slow down, Watson. Actually, no thank you, he’d waited long enough. Twenty-one years of waiting. He finished up what he was doing and went back aboard the _Endymion_ to wait for Greg. While he waited, he fixed tea. It seemed the proper thing to do. With a hot cuppa in hand, John sat down on the couch and relaxed a bit. John wasn’t alone for very long, though. Not with two dogs on board who were both very cuddly and wanted to be as close to their humans as physically possible. Cassie sort of invited herself onto the couch, settling into the space to John’s left, and he eyed her suspiciously as she got comfortable.

“Can I _help_ you, ma’am? Who said you were allowed up here, hm?” All he got for that scolding was a sad-brown-eyes look and a soft tail-thumping. He rolled his eyes and snorted, reaching over to give her a scratch behind the ear. She liked that and moved to put her head in his lap. This did not please Max, who barked shortly and whined.

“Oh, alright, you impossible thing. There _should_ be enough room up here for the both of you, but it’s on your fuzzy heads if dogs aren’t allowed on the furniture.” He patted the space to his right and invited Max onto the couch. Max promptly decided that he would rather be next to Cassie and after some scolding and rearranging, everyone was comfortable, more or less.

“Christ, you two are worthless,” John muttered, not really that upset with them. He finished his tea and rinsed out his cup in the sink, setting it on the drying rack for later. Then he returned to the couch. Max had taken his spot, but he just shoved the Shepherd over to make room for himself again.

“That’s _my_ spot, you selfish thing.” He sat down and checked his watch. It hadn’t been _that_ long, of course, and if anything he knew what a pain filling out paperwork for new residency somewhere could be. It wouldn’t be a short trip, most likely, even with most of the paperwork taken care of ahead of time. Well, he could always take a nap. He didn’t feel like going all the way to the master cabin, the couch was actually quite comfortable, so John kicked off his shoes and with some rearranging of his own, got cosy. John ended up using Max for a pillow and Cassie tucked herself into the space behind his knees, more or less keeping him warm that way. He had slept many a night in the desert just like this, usually not lucky enough to have a second dog with him, and was asleep in no time at all. It wasn’t quite what John had been expecting to do with his afternoon, but he had no complaints. There were far worse things he could be doing, most of them included sitting by himself and getting black-out drunk while he felt sorry for himself. This was much more fun. And healthier. He wasn’t alone, he wasn’t getting black-out drunk, and he wasn’t quite feeling sorry for himself. John suspected that, if he played his cards right, he would never have to be alone or feel sorry for himself _while_ being alone ever again.

* * *

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	9. Kind Of Being Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg and John get some alone time. Funny how twenty-one years can seem like an eternity and no time at all.

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* * *

His business with the marina office had only taken maybe twenty minutes, but Greg felt that was twenty minutes too long. Returning to the _Endymion_ with everything taken care of, he noticed one thing right away. It was awfully quiet. Not exactly a concerning quiet, but...a little quieter than it usually was. Cassie was nowhere to be found, and neither was Max. John wasn’t around, either, but before sounding the alarm, common sense took him below.

He found them in the lounge and knew why the dogs hadn’t been on deck to greet him. As he approached the couch, Max raised his head but didn’t do much more than that. And Cassie didn’t even bother to _move_ , she just eyed him from her perch behind John’s legs, her head rested on his hip. He felt bad about disturbing them, but of course there was no such thing as sneaking up on someone like John Watson and when John’s eyes opened, he just smiled.

“Oh. Hi.” John blinked and tried to sit up. “Sorry, didn’t mean to doze off like that.”

“I don’t mind, I was just wondering why the dogs weren’t around to greet me just now.” He just smiled and leaned down a bit. “If you’re tired, I can offer you a decent bed. You don’t have to sleep on the couch with just the dogs to keep you warm.”

“It’s not so much that I’m _tired_ , which I am, as it is I took advantage of a moment of peace,” John said with a yawn, ruffling his hair with one hand. “If anything had come up besides you returning from your errand, the dogs would have sounded an alarm.” Greg took a chance and reached out to touch the sun-bleached blond strands. Longer than regulation but acceptably short. He didn’t miss how John’s eyes fluttered and closed in contentment as he touched and relearned the features of a face he had never quite forgotten. Greg felt the scrape of stubble against his palm and sighed. Leaning down until he was close enough he could practically breathe John’s air, he took a risk.

“Can I...”

“Yeah. Please.” John whispered. So, Greg kissed him. Just a soft press of lips, not asking for anything or making any demands, just...touching. Remembering, relearning. John made some soft sound in his throat and Greg felt more than saw him grab hold of his shirt. Christ, it had been an age. A lifetime.

But before they could go any further with it, they were interrupted by a broad, wet tongue.

“Ugh!” John jerked back, “Max, no!”

“Enough from you, Max! That’s not on!” Greg laughed and shoved Max out off the way. He rubbed his cheek with his sleeve and held out one hand to the clever, kind veteran who had more or less followed him home without question or demand. “Would you care to leave these idiots for the woods, Captain?”

“Think we can leave them to their own devices?” John took his hand, smiling.

“Absolutely. Come on, you.” He led the way once again to his cabin, looking over his shoulder at the dogs who had stayed put on the couch. “You two are going to stay right there, hear me? This is human business, no place for dogs now. Stay. Right. There. Don’t either of you fuzzy bastards even _think_ about interrupting.”

“I don’t think they liked that.” John chuckled.

“They don’t have to. I have plans and I will be damned if they interfere.” Greg tightened his grip. They made it to his cabin and closed the door. John pushed him back against the door and Greg grunted at the forcefulness.

“Easy, easy.” He murmured, “Got all the time in the world, John. No rush.”

“Tell me to stop if you mean it, but I’m not going to wait anymore. I can’t.” John rumbled, his breath hot against Greg’s neck as he rucked up the hem of Greg’s rugby shirt and found bare skin. Greg moaned as rough fingertips explored a bit, trailing up the line of his spine before tracking down again and resting on his hips.

“Christ, John.” He huffed.                                                   

“Stop?”

“No! Please, don’t.” He leaned in and caught John’s mouth in a kiss, just a bit of exploring for now. He had kissed several people in the two decades and some since he’d first met John Watson, but none of them had ever felt so...right. When John tugged on his shirt, he chuckled. They had to separate to get the shirt off, and Greg took the chance to get John out of his jumper and vest, but then it was right back to kissing. He pushed and carefully steered John towards his bed. It was small for two people, but there was room enough for what he had in mind. He managed to kick his shoes off without breaking contact with John, who kissed him like his life depended on it. Greg could feel the frenetic energy in John’s body, the almost-panic. Taking control, he pulled back a bit and stroked John’s hair with one hand.

“Easy, John. It’s alright, I’m right here. I’m right here.” He murmured, kissing at the corner of John’s mouth, “Slow down a bit.”

“Christ, Greg, I can’t...”

“I’m not going anywhere, and neither are you.” He touched the back of John’s neck, “I’m. Right. Here.”

“Okay.” John let out a slow breath and leaned his head back a bit to look at Greg, who just smiled and kissed him again, picking up where they’d left off. He could _taste_ the desperation, the sadness, and wanted nothing more than to protect John from the world. But that was silly, and unnecessary. John didn’t need sheltering, he needed understanding and love. They reached the bed and broke apart, gasping for breath, as Greg reached for the waistband of John’s denims.

“May I? Please, John.”

“Yes, oh God, yes.” John looked down for a minute and then up, his eyes wide and dark. “Christ, yes please.” Greg smiled and carefully flicked the button free, sliding the zip down. It wasn’t long before John was kicking his denims aside and Greg got his own off. They both had more scars and just a few more wrinkles than either of them would probably like to have, but they were no longer young men in their twenties. Life had been harsh on both of them in the two decades that stood between their first meeting and this one. But Greg didn’t particularly care, he had lost time to make up for and felt that enough time had been wasted already. John surprised him by turning the tables, quite literally switching their positions and sweeping Greg’s feet out from under him in a quick, precise move he didn’t see coming. He landed on the bed with a startled grunt as John shoved him backwards and then came down on top of him. Okay, that was fine with him.

“I spent twenty-one years waiting. I’m not waiting another fucking minute.” John said in response to what must have been a slightly startled expression on Greg’s face.

“Oh, by all means, don’t let me stop you.” He reached up and touched the side of John’s face, “I am not complaining.”

“I didn’t exactly warn you, though.”

“Well, you didn’t warn me the first time, either.” Greg smirked and rubbed his thumb along John’s jaw, “I didn’t mind back then, and I don’t exactly mind this time.”

“Christ, you know I thought you were going to arrest me?”

“I thought about it, for about a fraction of a  millisecond.”

“So, in other words, the thought never actually crossed your mind?”

“Nope. I was too busy wondering what the fuck was wrong with me that I was aiding and abetting.”

“Well, I hadn’t quite committed a crime worthy of clapping me in irons or dragging me off to questioning.”

“Not that I could see, you sure hadn’t. Now, you _might_ have assaulted an officer of the law, but I wasn’t about to report you for that.”

“I don’t think you quite minded that kiss.” John smiled, his eyes bright.

“No, I did not.”

“Oh, that reminds me.”

“Hmm?”

“Did you ever get to arrest your neighbour’s ex for harassment and stalking?”

“What?” Greg blinked, a little confused.

“The bloke you mistook me for the first time you answered your door? Brandon Leslie?”

“Oh my god, you _remember_ that?” Greg covered his face with both hands.

“Of course I remember that! You shouted at me before answering your door wearing nothing but a towel!” John’s voice was soft with laughter, “How could I ever forget someone calling me by another bloke’s name and threatening to do who knew what because I had the nerve to knock on your door in the first place?”

“You’re terrible.”

“Your terrible?”

“Oh, shut up!” Greg huffed, lowering his hands so he could make eye contact. “You may think you are charming, sir.”

“I am charming.”

“Pest.”

“Your pest?”

“Alright, that’s enough out of _you_. Half a mind to clap you in irons for that cheek.”

“These handcuffs?” John just smiled as he dangled Greg’s handcuffs.

“Where did...where did you get those!”

“Found them in the kitchen.”

“Those are _mine_ , sir.” Greg took them back and tossed them aside carelessly. “I have other plans that don’t require the use of handcuffs.”

“Oh?”

“Come here.” He ran one hand through John’s hair and down to his nape, tugging until they were nose-to-nose. “I’m going to kiss you, if that’s alright with you?”

“Please do.” John smiled and Greg initiated another bout of kissing. Just soft, exploratory kisses at first, then moving on to deeper, more intense kisses. There was a rather lot of touching done, relearning the planes, dips, and curves of familiar bodies long missed but never quite forgotten, mapping out new scars, finding the spots that made them react in certain ways. John made the most interesting sound when Greg grazed his earlobe with gentle teeth, just a bit of pressure, a tug. He knew he was on to something when he suddenly found his arms full of limp veteran. That, of course, brought their bodies flush, chest to hips, and Greg went completely still as their cocks brushed. The skin-on-skin friction was...electrifying. He gasped, a sharp inhale that sounded a bit like it had been punched out of him. John’s head landed on his shoulder, his entire body shaking. Had it really been so long that just the mere brush of contact was leaving them both so utterly wrecked?

But it wasn’t long before Greg was aware of slight, twitching movements. John was making soft, desperate noises, panting against Greg’s collarbone. He smiled into John’s hair as it hit him what the smaller man was up to.

“Hey. Sweetheart, take it slow.  We’ve got all night ahead of us.” He rubbed the space between John’s shoulder-blades, down a bit to the dip above his tailbone, and back up, trailing his fingers along the bumps of his spine. John’s only response was a soft, drawn-out whine.

“Hey, come ‘ere.” He rubbed two fingers against John’s cheek, got him to look at him properly. “Come ‘ere.”

“What?”

“Come. Here.”

“Stop?”

“Slow down.” He tugged until John was face-to-face with him and smiled. “You’re rutting like a panicked teenager, there’s no reason for that. I’m not going anywhere, I’m certainly not going to kick you out, just...slow. Take it easy, take it slow, do what feels good.”

“Fidget?” John blinked, so adorably wrecked Greg almost felt sorry for him.

“Fidget.” He smiled and peppered John’s face with soft, gentle kisses. “Say it if you ever feel the need for it.”

“Okay. I’m...sorry, Greg.”

“Don’t be.” He soothed, kissing a path from John’s lips to his ear and down from there to his throat. “Mind if we switch for a bit?”

“N-no.”

“No?”

“No, I don’t mind.” John blinked hazy grey eyes at him, “I promise.”

“Alright. I’m going to turn you over, don’t fight me.” Greg said quietly as he tightened his grip on John and carefully rolled them so that he was the one on top. He very quickly sat back on his knees so he wasn’t crowding John.

With their positions reversed, John did some exploring of his own and noticed the changes in Greg’s physique, what was different now from what he remembered when they had been twenty years younger. There was a thickness to his midsection that hadn’t been there before and he hated that extra padding, despite knowing damn well it was an inevitable result of middle age. John found this new softness and smiled.

“You’re eating well.”

“No, I’m not actually. I have shite eating habits. This is cheap takeaway, whatever’s in the break-room at work, fast food, too much beer, not enough sleep...” He trailed off as John’s expression softened and he shuffled a bit, hands sliding down Greg’s skin.

“What are you doing?”

“Shh.” John murmured, leaning forward to press a kiss to the soft skin with its peppering of peach-fuzz. “You’re perfect.” Greg would have said something about that, but John carefully applied his teeth and he kind of forgot how to complain about things.

“Christ.” He muttered, dropping onto hands and knees, head hanging between his shoulders. “Christ.”

“I’ve got you, Greg.” John said softly, “Take good care of you.” Greg groaned as he sank forward onto his elbows and looked down a bit to see what John was up to.

“John...”

“Hmm?”

“Jesus. Wh-what are you...?”

“Got twenty-one years to make up for, yeah?”

“All at _once_?!”

“I didn’t say that.” That got him a grin that was both sly and shy. He let out a low sound that came from somewhere behind his ribcage, shaking with small tremors as John worked his magic. Christ, it had been twenty-one years and he still remembered? There was no way he could have remembered after all this time! But John seemed to be perfectly happy to take his time and make Greg feel good.

It was only when he felt a venturing lick against his previously neglected cock that Greg realized just how far into his head he had gotten.

“Fuck!” He yelped, jerking in alarm.

“Oh, there you are.”

“Fuck you, Watson!” He growled, shooting the smug veteran a dirty look.

“Mm, we can if you’d like.”

“Damn it, John.”

“I would apologize.”

“You’d better, you sly bastard.” Greg rolled his eyes and shuffled a bit. “We’re _not_ young anymore.”

“Did I ever suggest we were?” That got him a raised eyebrow and he went to retort, but couldn’t come up with anything. He closed his mouth, his teeth clicked together, and he snorted.

“Smart arse.”

“Oh, you don’t mean that.” Roughened fingertips made their way to his hair and John’s smile was soft and inviting. “Give us a kiss.”

“I’m not sure you deserve one.”

“Aww.”

“No.” He narrowed his eyes, “Don’t you dare.” It was too late, of course, as John just batted his eyelashes and gave him the saddest look he’d ever seen. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. How are you _doing_ that?! Your eyes aren’t even brown!” John just kissed him, careful and not too pushy.

“Smooth bastard.” He muttered as they broke apart to breathe properly.

“I...missed you, Greg.” John’s eyes were bright in the cabin overheads and the skylight. “I missed this. I missed _us_ , the chance of us.”

“So did I. Maybe more than I had a right to.” He studied the way John looked at this moment. “I tried to fill the...the _hole_ left in my life when you walked away to the Army. It didn’t make sense, I barely knew you for a day.”

“You got married.”

“Because my mother said she wanted grandchildren and Pat was...leaving obvious hints everywhere. It wasn’t...” Greg didn’t _like_ remembering that, and it wasn’t anything he wanted to be talking about right now, but John deserved full transparency.

“You were pressured into it. Doing what was expected of you, not what you wanted.”

“Dad told me the night before my own fucking wedding that he wouldn’t blame me or say a word if I wanted to call it all off.” 

“I’m so sorry, Greg. You deserved so much better than that.” John touched where he could reach, smoothing one hand along his back, just a soft, soothing contact.

“You wouldn’t be the first or only person who’s said that to me.” Greg relaxed a bit and put his head down next to John’s on the pillow. His bed was small, but there was plenty of room for the two of them to cuddle. And do more, if either of them were up to having a bit of dirty fun. John shifted a bit and rolled so they faced each other a bit more and Greg threw an arm over his waist. Despite nearly six months in unspeakable conditions, John was surprisingly fit and so very, beautifully tan. Greg played in the curve of his spine above his tailbone, fingers trailing along the supple muscles of his rather shapely arse.

“You’re a menace, Inspector Lestrade.” John buried a giggle in Greg’s neck, pressing close. Greg couldn’t help smiling and gentled his touch.

“Hm.” He chuckled. “Your menace, Captain Watson?” John just matched his smile and shimmied up a bit. He snagged a kiss, just a quick one. Well, it _would_ have been a quick kiss if Greg hadn’t followed and maintained the contact. He caught John’s hand in his and held it between their bodies, just holding on without demanding anything beyond that point of contact and the kiss. Which he carefully deepened a bit, coaxing John to open for him.

Kissing John had always felt so...right, for some reason, and it still did. It felt like waking up from a deep, restful sleep, he could feel the way his body reacted to being so close to someone so...vital. Vital? Well, yes, if he was completely honest with himself. John Watson was vital to Greg Lestrade. When breathing became crucial, Greg pulled away enough to put that needed space between them. He sighed and rested his forehead against John’s, keeping his eyes closed.

“God, I love you.”

“Hmm?” He cracked one eye open as he settled against John a bit more.

“I said...I love you.”

“You said it in your journal, too. Twice, at least.” Greg just smiled. “You know, you got very...expressive when you were lonely or thought you might not make it out.”

“I couldn’t help it. And I meant every bloody word.”

“Good.” He studied the man beside him and tilted his head to one side. “Because I love you, too.”

“Did you wait twenty-one years to say that?”

“Might’ve.”

“Sentimental idiot.” John leaned up a bit and kissed him. “That’s fine, that means you’re my sentimental idiot.”

“Really?”

“Yes. We have time now, we can take it easy and make the most of whatever stolen moments we have.”

“You would...stay with me?”

“Absolutely. If you asked me to stay?”

“Please?” He hated begging, and he didn’t want to take John away from Sherlock, that would end badly for all of them, but...John was willing to be with him? That was huge.

“I can’t leave Baker Street, of course.”

“I wouldn’t dream of asking you to leave Baker Street. Not right away.” He moved a bit so they were both comfortable but didn’t break contact. “As much as I love this place, it’s...not ideal for two people and two dogs.”

“I don’t mind coming to visit for a night over every now and then.” John took his hand, “And you’re welcome over at Baker Street anytime.”

“Sherlock would beg to differ.”

“It’s my home, too, and I’ll be more than happy to remind him of that if I need to. But for now, I think we’ve done enough serious talk for a while.”

“What did you have in mind?” Greg had to ask.

“Well, we can stay here and keep doing...whatever we’ve been doing, this is nice. Or...”

“Or, what?”

“Are you hungry?” John’s smile was boyish.

“Hmm. Let me think on that.” Greg tilted his head. “I assume there will be cooking of some manner involved if I say yes?”

“Yes.”

“Or stay here and have sex. Food? Or sex? Hmm. That’s a tough call.”

“I can promise I won’t burn the kitchen down.”

“Which is more than anyone else ever promised.” Greg rolled his eyes. He’d spent a few nights over at Baker Street in the past and the sheer number of times he’d gone to sleep with one eye open just _waiting_ for the smoke alarm to go off was too many to count.

“At least not on purpose.”

“Still more than Sherlock ever managed to promise in a given night.”

“Well, he hasn’t burned it down in the week and a half I’ve lived on Baker Street, but there’s been a few close calls.” John folded his hands under Greg’s shoulder blades and smirked. “I know my way around a kitchen.”

“Well.”

“I promise to help you burn the calories later.”

“Oh, well, in _that_ case!” Greg chuckled and stole a kiss from John before hopping from the bed. “There’s a Waitrose nearby here if you need to buy anything. My larder’s a bit lacking.”

“Come on, then.” John was on his feet in no time and they got dressed in the clothes discarded earlier. Well, John did.

“What are you doing?” Greg asked mildly, enjoying the view.

“I’m getting dressed. Swanning about in nought but your skin is highly frowned upon by most of society.” John looked over his shoulder at him. “I’d rather not get myself arrested for public indecency and exposure.”

“Oh, you’re no fun.”

“I’m plenty of fun. And I’ll prove it to you later.” John’s expression was both smug and exasperated. “Get. Dressed. I’m not going to be seen with the bloody Commissioner’s son out of a publicly-acceptable state of dress. Thank you very much.” Greg snickered and batted away the shirt that came flying at his head.

“Fine, fine. If you insist.”

“Does that have to be an order?”

“Don’t tempt me.” He grinned and caught the denims that followed the shirt. “Fine, I’m getting dressed. Happy now?” John’s amusement was muffled as he pulled the jumper over his head. Greg didn’t _really_ mind, it was an excuse to spend more time with John. Even if that meant going out in public when he would much rather stay in and see how long it took before John delivered on the promised intimacy. That could wait, as hard as it would be. Greg could behave himself for a while longer.

* * *

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	10. Bottom's Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Greg's evening together continues to develop in interesting, intimate ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Picks up right after Chapter 9!

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Once they were both decent, at least by John’s standards for leaving the _Endymion_ , they went out to the lounge and collected their coats and gear. Seeing their humans, Max and Cassie jumped down from the couch to greet them.

“Hi, you troublemakers.” John scolded with a fond scruffing for Max. Cassie, not about to get left out of things, shoved her head under John’s arm and got herself between John and Max.

“Don’t you get all jealous, Cassie.” Greg rolled his eyes. “There’s plenty for both of you, but that’s mine.” John chuckled and gave Cassie a bit of a fuss.

“I guess you don’t mind me moving on your master, do you, Cassie? Good girl, you are.” He rubbed her ears, “You’re just a big sweetie, aren’t you? Good, loyal girl.”

“Oh, don’t encourage her.” Greg had their coats in hand.

“I guess we can’t bring them with us, can we?” John didn’t know why he was asking, it just seemed like a good idea.

“What’s that?”

“The dogs. They can’t come along, can they?”

“Sure we can, we just can’t bring them into the store. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve brought Cassie along and left her to wait for me outside.” Greg handed John his coat with a smile and went to fetch up leads for the dogs. They leaded up the dogs once they were on the jetty and walked from their berth to the nearby Waitrose together. As they made the short trip together, John noticed that he and Greg walking a bit closer than might be proper, occasionally bumping shoulders or brushing hands. He certainly didn’t mind, and Greg didn’t seem to notice or mind if he did.

At some point, he felt a tug on his left hand and looked down. They had stopped, and he looked up to see that they reached the Waitrose nearby the Marina. But the tug on his hand wasn’t just because Max was pulling on his lead.

“Oh.” John blinked and frowned a bit. When had he taken Greg’s hand? How long how had they been _holding_ hands? Greg just smiled and finished tying the dogs to the trolley enclosure before he fetched a trolley and headed inside.

“Come on!”

“Okay.” He shrugged and followed Greg into the store after giving the dogs some fuss. “Now, you two stay out here and behave yourselves. No menacing the other patrons, alright?”

“John!”

“Coming!” He rolled his eyes and went after Greg. He looked around once he was inside and took a deep breath. Waitrose was not Tesco, but the last time he’d been inside a grocery store had been his one public panic attack. He had been with Sherlock that time, which hadn’t really helped matters. This time he was with Greg, and Greg would be far more familiar with the signs and symptoms of a panic attack and would know how to help him if he had another episode. John didn’t see any immediate triggers, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t come across one later.

“You alright, John?”

“Yeah. For now.” He shrugged, “I doubt I’ll have another panic attack, but I can’t promise anything.”

“If you feel at all like you’re having an episode, just use your words.” Greg took his hand, “So, what do we need?”

“A basics restock for the barge wouldn’t be a bad idea, just so we have food beyond today.” John sniffed. “But for cooking a meal?”

“Yeah. What do _you_ need?”

“Hmm. Let’s look around a bit?”

“Sure.” Greg just led him along the aisles and different sections of the store. At the fish/seafood chiller, he found a package of smoked salmon and suddenly had an idea for dinner. Tossing the salmon into the trolley, he tried to think of what else he would need. Rice? Or a pasta? He looked around a bit.

“Greg?”

“Yeah?”

“Where’s the rice and pastas?”

“That way. Why?” Greg pointed the way for him.

“I had an idea.” He headed for the indicated aisle and started looking for what he needed. He found a package of pasta that he liked after staring at the selection available for five minutes and threw it into the trolley with the rest of the groceries. Then he stopped by the produce and grabbed an onion.

“You’re not picky about food, are you?” He looked at Greg, who trailed after him.

“Not particularly. And I don’t have any food allergies, before you ask.”

“Good. Don’t mind mushrooms, then?”

“Not at all. Why?”

“Good.” He grinned and tossed a package of fresh mushrooms into the trolley next. Onion, mushrooms, fresh...garlic? Check, check, and check. Pasta. Check. Smoked salmon? Check. What was he forgetting?

“Onion, mushrooms, fresh garlic, pasta, salmon...” He listed what they had in the cart to himself out loud, thinking next about what he still needed.

“What are you thinking?”

“Wine, scotch, oil, salt, pepper, pepper flakes for snap...hmm.” John trailed off and looked at Greg for a minute. “I don’t suppose you have any alcohol in your kitchen?”

“I do, actually. Both types you just mentioned. Why?”

“We’re going to need them.”

“Okay? Are you taking over my kitchen, then?” Greg was smiling now and John looked at the full basket of their trolley.

“I think so. I’d apologize for that.”

“But you’re cooking dinner, so don’t you dare apologize. It’s probably not in my best interest to admit that I don’t cook all that often?”

“I wouldn’t expect you to. With the work you do? Unreasonable.” John just returned that smile. “You have neither the time nor the means. Despite being able to cook rather well, I imagine.”

“You could say that.” He’d be damned if Greg didn’t blush. They grabbed the last few things John needed for dinner and checked out. John paid for his share of it and took the two bags of his groceries. Greg had brought along a canvas tote bag to carry _his_ groceries, and put it over one shoulder as they walked back to the marina. He also took the dogs, waving off John’s concerns that two dogs and a bag full of groceries might be a bit much for him to handle.

“I’m _fine_ , don’t worry about me.” He just smiled and shook his head.

When they got back to the marina, he had John go into his pockets to get his keys and get the gate open.

“I’d do it, but my hands are full.”

“Yeah, yeah.” John rolled his eyes and rummaged in Greg’s coat pocket for the keys. Once he had them, he unlocked the gate and held it for Greg to go through, trading him the two bags in his hand for the dogs. Once they were all through the gate, he let it close again behind him and followed Greg back to the _Endymion_ , where he promptly took over the kitchen. Greg located the pots, pans, and other cooking implements John would need before he got himself kicked out.

“Need anything else, love?” He asked as he cracked two bottles of beer and gave one to John.

“You don’t have an apron, do you?” Not that what he was cooking was particularly _messy_ , but he liked to have one when he was working in the kitchen.

“Yes, I do, actually.” Greg just smiled as he reached past John. “Budge over a bit.”

“I am _not_ in your way.” He rolled his eyes and leaned against the worktop as he took a sip of the proffered beer. Greg opened one of the drawers and pulled something out of it after some rummaging.

“It’s a little silly, but will this do?” He held up a black apron that wasn’t much to look at until John saw what had been screen-printed across the chest-area: the words “Kiss The Chef” in glittery, bright pink block-print with pink and white rhinestones.

“Please tell me that was a gag?”

“Yep.”

“Christmas gift?” John dutifully tugged it over his head and tied up the strings behind him. “Or was this a birthday present?”

“That was a gift for my fortieth birthday, believe it or not.” Greg wiggled his eyebrows. “My brother, actually.”

“You’ve got siblings?”

“Mhm. Just the one.” Greg shrugged, “He thought it was fucking hilarious.”

“Do you still talk to your brother?”

“Occasionally. He took it pretty hard when I “came out”.”

“He didn’t know?”

“Well, more like he didn’t take it seriously.”

“Homosexuality is not a phase.” John sighed, knowing exactly where that was coming from. “I take it the news about your split with the ex didn’t go over well?”

“Dad took it better.”

“Your dad never liked your ex, to begin with, so of course _he_ didn’t take the news about your split that hard.” John shook his head and got to work on dinner. He boiled the water for the pasta and started prep for the sauce while Greg found something to watch on telly and took care of feeding the dogs. That had been among the things they’d purchased at Waitrose, more dog food. Greg not only needed more for Cassie, but there were _two_ dogs to account for now. As he rinsed and set aside the mushrooms and chopped the onion and garlic, he didn’t miss Greg sneaking in and stealing a walnut and a piece of salmon.

“Oi!” He scolded. “Out of the kitchen!”

“Love you.” Greg just smiled and wandered off after kissing him on the cheek. John rolled his eyes and stuck the tray of walnuts in the oven. It wasn’t long before Greg was back to steal a bit more. More food, more affection, both of which got a fond scolding. John just shook his head when the dogs decided they wanted in on things and came begging for some scraps.

“Oh, the lot of you are worthless.” He chuckled and tossed the dogs a bit of salmon, “Here, now take that and scram. No more for you dogs.”

“What about the human?” Greg wore a boyish grin, hopeful that he would get away with more than the dogs had managed.

“The human can damn well wait until dinner’s ready,” John said with a shove as he passed by Greg to move from one station to the next. “Now, everyone get out of the kitchen. You’re in my way and you’re breaking my concentration.”

“Aw, you don’t mean _that_.”

“I bloody well do mean that! Out!” He scolded as he checked on the sauce. It was thickening up nicely, it was almost ready. “Hmm. Do you have a lighter or a long match, Greg?”

“Yeah? Why? You need one for something?”

“I do.”

“Top drawer right behind you. Should be both in there.”

“Ta.” He turned and opened the indicated drawer, locating a utility lighter that would do fine.

“Anything I can do to help, John?”

“A shot of whiskey, if you please?”

“For drinking?”

“No, it’s for the sauce.”

“What a waste.” Greg huffed, obediently doling out the requested measure of liquor. “What else?”

“A cup of heavy cream? Just pass over the container of it, there should be just enough.”

“Here.” Greg slid a shot-glass of whiskey across to him and found the cream, then handed him a second shot of whiskey. “And here, because I refuse to let you get away with that kind of alcohol abuse.”

“Is _that_ what you call it?” He chuckled and took the second shot, not missing that Greg had his own. “Alcohol abuse?”

“What do _you_ call it?”

“Cooking.” John smiled and raised his glass. “So, what shall we drink to?”

“Miracles and the company of good friends.”

“Good friends?”

“I can’t say what’s going through my head right now, I’m not _nearly_ drunk enough.”

“That’s fine.” John downed his shot. “Just hold onto whatever’s in your head right now and tell me when you’re good and ready.”

“Fair enough.” Greg just smiled a bit sadly and watched John add the first shot to the sauce-pan after removing it from the heat source. “What are you doing? Did I ask yet?”

“You’ll see. It’s why I asked for a lighter.”

“Oh.” Greg raised an eyebrow as John finished what he was doing and picked up the utility lighter he’d found earlier. “You promised, John.”

“I’m _not_ going to burn down your kitchen, Greg, calm down.” John focused on what he was doing, standing back a bit from the cook-top. Flare-ups were very much a thing and kind of an occupational hazard. But he knew what he was doing and knew how to do this safely. The liquor ignited with a satisfying “whoof” and John just smiled. Well, that had gone better than he’d expected.

“Did you just...”

“Yep.” He looked at Greg, whose eyes were wide. “Part of the deal with that particular recipe, which I kind of strayed from a bit. Still think it’s alcohol abuse?”

“Um, no, actually.” Greg leaned over his shoulder as he added in the salmon, walnuts, and cream once the flame had died down and brought the whole lot to a boil while stirring. Once the sauce had thickened up nicely, he took everything off of the hob and combined it before dividing it between two bowls. With everything ready, he called Greg to the table and sat down after putting everything on the table.

“Alright, you, come sit down. It’s time to eat.” John said cheerfully.

“It looks amazing. Smells amazing.” Greg came right to the table, beaming. “You’re amazing.”

“It’s nothing fancy.”

“It doesn’t have to be fancy. You cooked because you _wanted_ to.” Greg scoffed as he sat down next to John, “I get to enjoy the fruits of your labours and express my gratitude in some reasonable fashion.” John just smiled and took a sip of his beer.

“Then eat up, because I recall promising to help you burn some calories later?”

“Oh, you _did_ , didn’t you?” Greg’s eyes lit up and his expression turned sly. Yes, John had promised just that very thing in exchange for Greg’s patience just a bit longer.

“Yes, I did. And I am nothing if not a man of my word.” John took a bite of food. It was his first attempt at cooking in what felt like ages, and it was actually...delicious. It smelled good, it tasted good, the pasta was just al dente, and the company didn’t hurt the cause at all. John couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten a decent home-cooked meal and figured he might have to remedy that in the future.

 

After clearing their plates and stashing the left-overs, which Greg promised to take for lunch when he returned to work, John cleaned up the kitchen a bit while Greg did the wash-up and squared everything away. As soon as the last glass had been dried and set on the drying-rack, John pulled him back from the sink, sliding both arms around his detective’s waist. There was something about watching Greg do the dishes, a dishtowel over one shoulder, sleeves shoved to his elbows, hands doused in soapsuds and water just this side of too-hot, humming to himself as he worked, that was...charming. Domestic. Special.

“Hey.” He murmured, leaning up on tiptoe a bit. “You done here?”

“Yep.”

“Good. Can I steal you away for a while?”

“Do I have to report you for kidnapping?”

“I don’t think so.” He just smiled and dropped back on his heels after planting a kiss on Greg’s scruffy jaw, “Come on, you.” John took Greg’s hand and led the way to the master cabin. He had spent twenty-one years waiting for this chance, had entertained the thought, however briefly, that he might not _get_ this chance, and here they were.

“Max, Cassie, you two behave, the adults are busy,” Greg called over his shoulder to the dogs, who were laid together on the dog bed by the couch and just sort of looked at them like they were speaking Mandarin. John chuckled and tightened his grip on Greg’s hand. This time, he’s the one leading the way, he’s the one pushing Greg against the closed door, he’s the one taking initiative.

It didn’t take much for their clothes to land in an untidy, tangled heap on the floor by Greg’s small but adequate bed, and less time than _that_ for the two of them to land on the bed itself in an equally tangled heap of flesh, limbs, and raw want. John touched everywhere he could reach, almost frantic, his hands finally finding their way into Greg’s gorgeous hair. He tightened his grip on Greg’s hair as Greg returned the touches and caresses. John moaned as Greg kissed him like it was something he never wanted to stop doing. Breathing was secondary to kissing, which was just part of the natural progression of things. Greg certainly knew what he was doing, John’s only concern was that they might not get more than one solid shot at this tonight. They were no longer strapping young men in their twenties, and he couldn’t speak for Greg, but John knew for damn sure that his refractory period had plummeted as he got older. He might have the libido of a much younger man, but his body couldn’t keep up the pace like it used to.

“Stop that,” Greg growled, startling him out of his head. “Stop that. Right now.”

“Stop...what?” He blinked, a little confused.

“I’m no mind reader like Sherlock fucking Holmes, but you are not allowed to doubt yourself.”

“Sorry?” John had to laugh, it was a little ridiculous that he was somehow so easily read. Of course, it _was_ Greg’s job to read people, so if he could read complete strangers and assess their guilt, complicity, or innocence in a given case, then reading someone like John would be a piece of cake.

“John, we’ve both waited twenty-one years for this chance, I don’t need you feeling sorry for yourself because you think you might not be...enough.”Greg’s eyes were nearly black with lust, and something far deeper, his voice harsh in John’s ear. “You. Are. Enough. More than enough. More than I deserve.”

Greg had discovered a weakness during their earlier encounter, that John sort of just turned to boneless mush if his ear was teased at all. A nip, a lick, anything, and he was a goner. A high, desperate, drawn-out sound was completely involuntary as Greg did just that, tracing the shell of John’s ear with his tongue before he applied brief, sharp teeth to the lobe, worrying the soft flesh for a moment to give him something to think about. Not that John was capable of much in the way of any coherent thought at the moment.

“Shit.” John shuddered, it started at the top of his skull and trickled its way down his body to his toes. He felt a little bad about the angry red tracks he was digging into Greg’s shoulders and back, but he couldn’t help himself.

“I’ve got you, love,” Greg whispered, gentling the torment with soft kisses from John’s ear down his throat for a bit of a nibble at his clavicle short of leaving a mark there, before moving on to lavish a bit of attention on John’s nipples. He had always been quite sensitive there, but so very few partners bothered to engage in any kind of extensive, meaningful foreplay or return any gestures of intimacy John had never really _enjoyed_ it properly. But Greg wasn’t like anyone else John had ever been with, and that was actually perfectly alright with him.

“John?”

“Hmm?” He blinked back to the present and looked down to find Greg watching him, arms folded across his hips, chin rest on his stomach.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

“I’m making another rule for the bedroom.”

“Besides the safe-word?”

“Besides the safe-word.” Greg nuzzled his belly-button, which was quite sensitive, and smiled at the reaction he got out of John. “We’re going to use signal-colours. Red for Stop, which will double as a safe-word; Yellow for Pause or Slow Down; and Green, of course, for Go.”

“Oh. Okay.” John didn’t know why that made him smile, but it did. He couldn’t help but agree to it.

“So, what colour?”

“Green. I promise. I was just...thinking about something. Nothing terribly serious, I promise.”

“Stop thinking.” Greg scolded, nipping sharply at his hip.

“How? It’s not a switch I can just flip at whim.”

“Then I’m not doing my job. It’s my job to make you forget all of your troubles.” Those brown eyes looked up at him, sparkling with mirth and a danger that thrilled John to his core. “Hold onto something, Captain! I plan on making sure you forget your own name.”

“I’d love to see you try!” He challenged, suspecting he might come to regret those words.

Regret hit him about five minutes later when he was on hands and knees, head buried in the pillow, hands scrambling to hold onto something, knees digging into the mattress, as Greg held him from behind. Blunt, dextrous fingers dug into his hips and Greg cursed in French. Suddenly, Greg bottomed out and John yelped, fingers closing tight around the chain of the handcuffs Greg had decided to use on him. The metal bracelets were tight enough he couldn’t get out of them but loose enough they wouldn’t leave terribly obvious marks for later. 

“Fuck!” He shouted.

“Working on it, sweetheart.” Greg chuckled breathlessly. “Told ya!”

“Shh...shut up.” He groaned as Greg pulled back a bit. “Fuck you, Lestrade!”

“I’d love to see you try.” An echo of the same words he’d taunted Greg with not a few minutes ago. His partner managed to somehow sound smug. John kind of hated him for that. Cheeky bastard, wasn’t he? John grunted, the sound forced out of him by the brutal pace Greg was setting. It was perfect, the balance of pleasure and pain and that tantalizing brush with oblivion that he never could quite grasp fully.

When Greg reached around with one hand and gave John’s neglected erection some attention, he almost wept. Every stroke hit his prostate, damn Greg for that, and by the time he heard those three words, he wanted to scream.

“Are you ready?”

“Christ, yes! Please!”

“Ready when you are, Captain,” Greg said softly, kissing the back of John’s neck. Permission granted, and not a minute too soon. John’s climax hit like a tidal wave, thundering through him and out, filling the condom Greg had thoughtfully given him at the start and draining him until he collapsed on his elbows, chest heaving.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Greg groaned, forehead pressed to John’s shoulder as his climax hit a few strokes later. When Greg collapsed against John’s back, he went down flat on his front, winded and whimpering. As soon as either of them was capable of moving more than an eyelash, which took a while, John whined as Greg pulled out first and then carefully pulled him up by the hips enough to remove the spent condom, staggering off to dispose of them and return with a damp cloth or two, and the keys to the handcuffs. He was careful and tender with cleanup and tossed the handcuffs into the bedside drawer with a clatter before tucking John under the covers and sliding in alongside him. Tonight would be committed to long memory, John would make sure of that. He didn’t want to forget any of it. He was sore, deliciously so, warm, and not alone. For the first time in what felt like ages, John was not alone. That was so important.

“Good night, John.”

“Good night, Greg.” He murmured, snuggling into the warm, solid body beside him. What a hell of a night, though. After twenty-one years apart, they’d met by sheer chance and John had followed Greg home. Just like that first night all those years ago. Worth it. So, so very worth it.

* * *

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Observant readers will notice that the "sex scene" between John and Greg looks awfully familiar. You're not imagining things. I have, indeed, borrowed from Chapter 1 for the dirty bedroom fun between my boys. I apologize for nothing.


End file.
